


Val Jean

by continuum



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Drama, Hurt, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:26:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/continuum/pseuds/continuum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[This work is no longer actively in progress.]  Flung across the galaxy, the crew of the Maquis ship <em>Val Jean</em> must mourn their lost loved ones, learn to accept former enemies into their close-knit family, and survive as a small ship in hostile territory.  Their journey home will be a long one, and one they will have to make without the resources of a capital ship, Starfleet regulations, or a ship’s counsellor.  All they have is each other.  What if <em>Voyager</em> were written in the 2010's, with contemporary themes, pacing, dialogue, characterization and dramatic tension?  These are episode rewrites, with the goal of both following canon and thoughtfully examining how the <em>Val Jean</em>’s adventures would have to diverge from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caretaker: Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, there are currently no plans to add chapters to this work. I hope you can still enjoy what has been posted so far!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the USS _Voyager_ is destroyed while protecting an alien planet, several of her officers are rescued by the terrorists they were sent to capture. Captain Chakotay of the _Val Jean_ declares that the ship's primary goal is to make the epic journey across the galaxy to return home.

The Maquis cell leader and his chief engineer had barely made it back to the bridge of the _Val Jean_ , their injuries and illness patched up good as new by the Feds’ computerized doctor, when a hail came from the Starfleet captain. “Janeway to Chakotay. Tuvok and I are beaming to the array. Can you hold off the Kazon?"

Apparently her first approach had not been well received. So much for vaunted Starfleet diplomacy. The skipper of the _Val Jean_ spared a brief look at his instruments. Two small Kazon scoutships. “Sure can, Captain." His crew slipped into the easy tension of battlestations. Tuvok’s absence was a burning angry hole at his back. Mike Ayala swung into the weapons officer’s seat, replacing the man who’d been infiltrating them all along. “All right. You all know the drill. Evasive maneuvers. Mike, take the shots as I give them to you. Here we go.”

It was good flying, good shooting. _Voyager_ helped out too, and Chakotay got the hang of firefighting with a capital ship on his side. It was a matter of boxing in the enemy, forcing them into range of the larger vessel’s phasers. It was interesting strategy, different from fighting alone. He wondered, darkly, whether that was Paris’ flying he was dancing with. But just as the second Kazon raider exploded, a new blip appeared on his readout to wipe away his other worries. This was a big one.

The enormous battleship, many times the size of _Voyager_ , completely ignored the _Val Jean_ and closed in on the cruiser. They were exchanging barrages, _Voyager_ ’s pilot doing his best to use the ship’s comparative maneuverability. Probably was Paris at the helm, with all that fancy footwork.

Chakotay flew his ship in close, a fly buzzing at a mammoth. Their weapons weren’t making a dent. Meanwhile, _Voyager_ was taking quite a beating. His heart sank a little as a direct hit took out one of her warp nacelles. That wasn’t going to get fixed, not out here. She was zagging, floundering. Plus, she’d switched to photon torpedoes. “Looks like their weapons array has been hit. They’re in trouble.”

B’Elanna looked up through the window. “Neither of us has enough firepower to stop that ship…”

“Look for weaknesses,” he called to his crew. At the same time, he wondered what the hell Janeway was up to on that array. They should be using it to get back now, not buying her time by fighting a superior force. He could only watch as _Voyager_ ’s ventral shields flickered and failed as well, a blast of phaser fire raking several decks deep across her belly. Dammit.

“Janeway to Chakotay.” She was back aboard, then. Beamed up now that the shields were gone?

“Captain! We need to get out of here now!”

Her comm link was scratchy audio only. “—thrusters only—my crew aboard—collision course.”

But he didn’t have to get the whole message to see what was happening. _Voyager_ , her whole midsection a desiccated corpse, was turning in towards the battleship. Whether the collision was planned or unavoidable, it was a target impossible to miss.

“Kurt! When I drop the shields, start beaming any lifesigns you can get into our cargo bay, starting with their bridge.” He pressed the button. “Now, now, now!”

Poor Kurt wrestled with his console. “There’s too much interference from the weapons fire. Our transporters can’t work under these conditions!”

“Wide-beam if you have to. I don’t care if we pick up half their bulkheads, as long as we get people too.”

Everyone in the cramped cockpit, Kurt excepted, craned up through the window in horrid fascination as _Voyager_ collided nose-first into the behemoth. She crinkled like so much foil. At first, it looked like she had smashed herself into a solid wall without effect. But then, near the impact site, small explosions started to blossom and grow. And grow. Shit.

“Got them?”

“Got some,” Kurt shot back.

“It’ll have to be enough.” He raised shields and pulled his ship away at maximum speed. Sure enough, on his tail, the Kazon ship turned into a pyrotechnics show.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Chakotay and B’Elanna made their way down to the cargo bay. There were sparking piles of debris littered everywhere. Kurt hadn’t been kidding with the wide-beam transporter. He’d picked up large chunks of the Fed ship along with the survivors. Chakotay coughed through the acrid smoke. His eyes started to make out shapes, bodies on the ground. He looked for her, a small woman in red. There— Tuvok was helping her to her feet, but she continued to lean unsteadily on him. The familiarity between them made him want to recoil.

“Captain Janeway," he called.

“Captain," she acknowledged, her eyes seeking his. “You need to move your ship away from the array."

“Away?" B’Elanna interjected. “The array is the only way we have to get back home!” Janeway only stared steadily back at her, bleeding from a gash on her forehead. “What have you done?”

Janeway stood a little straighter. “I’m not willing to trade the lives of the Ocampa for our convenience. We’ll have to find another way—"

B’Elanna snarled in rage and launched herself at the woman. Chakotay barely intercepted her, and it took all his strength to yank her back. “What other way home is there?” she yelled. “How dare she make that decision for all of us?”

“Chakotay,” the Federation captain said tightly, “Your ship. In less than one minute, that array will explode.”

One hand firmly on B’Elanna’s arm, the other on her back, he wordlessly pushed her out into the hallway and towards the cockpit. They wouldn’t need him up there, though, not now that the fighting was over. He pressed the comm panel on the wall of the cargo bay. “Mike. Max speed away from the array. No questions.” Then he turned back to the haze and debris. Tuvok was gently helping his captain to sit down, looking to her wound. Further back in the smoke, someone was groaning in pain. The _Val Jean_ had no doctor, only the most basic field skills. Janeway didn’t look so good. Inexplicably, that sent a pang through Chakotay’s chest. He went to kneel by her.

The strength and presence she’d had a moment ago had slipped away. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes. “What’s— what’s the status of my ship?” she managed. “My crew?”

He shook his head, seeing again the horribly slow way the magnificent _Voyager_ had crumpled against the Kazon juggernaut. Suddenly imagining what it would be like for a captain to lose her ship, nearly all her crew dead. “I…” But Captain Janeway’s eyes were already closed, her face slacking into unconsciousness which was, certainly, sweeter than the news he had to bring.

Tuvok steadied her head in his big hands, looking up evenly at the Maquis skipper. “Tell me,” he said with barely a crack in his Vulcan calm, “and I will tell it to her when she wakes.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Four.

A hundred and forty crew had set out on the starship _Voyager_ when she’d left Deep Space 9. Now it was just the four of them.

Each was encased in their own impenetrable shell in the cargo bay. Tom spared a sidelong glance at Harry, sitting against the wall, his head now resting on his arms, knees drawn up. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Tuvok sat vigil over his captain, his eyes open, but turned inwards. Maybe he was meditating. Tom had some training as a field medic, and the _Val Jean_ had medkits, though no doctor. He’d treated Janeway’s concussion, seen the weary way she came around to consciousness. Told Tuvok that head trauma patients weren’t supposed to have any more shocks. “She deserves to know,” the implacable Vulcan had replied. “She would want to know.” So Tom just watched while he leaned over her and they quietly conversed. Just watched as she turned her head away and tears flowed freely on her empty face.

They were lost, each of them. Maybe that was why Tuvok hadn’t left the Captain’s side. Tom felt it too, the need. To have someone nearby. Wearily, he dragged himself over to sit next to Harry, shoulders brushing. Poor Harry. He was so young. Too young for any of this. When Tom finally slept, his head nodded down to rest on the kid’s shoulder.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Chakotay could only give them space for so long. His crew were muttering darkly, angrily, about the contents of the cargo bay. Two traitors they’d once trusted and fought beside. One Fed captain who’d hunted them down and deliberately exiled them from ever seeing their homes and families again.

“And one green-behind-the ears newly-graduated cadet," B’Elanna added. It was turning into an unofficial meeting in the mess, the three of them eating together. “He’s alright. Maybe he’d turn rebel. But the rest of them—”

“We’ll leave them on the next inhabitable planet,” Seska finished. It was a more humane idea than some the crew bandied about. “At least we have some salvageable Starfleet equipment from the wreckage, even a backup computer core.”

Behind Chakotay, somebody cleared his throat. “Excuse me sir, I mean, if you don’t mind— what about us? Our ship was destroyed, but perhaps, if we could get passage as far as Talaxian space, or even…”

He’d nearly forgotten about the two rescued Delta quadrant passengers. They’d been beamed off the bridge too, and come out of it with barely a scratch. “This isn’t a passenger ship,” he sighed, already weary with the decisions he hadn’t yet steeled himself to make.

“Of course not,” said sweet, young Kes. She didn’t look a day over eighteen. Chakotay felt like a dirty old man even looking in her general direction. “We won’t be passengers.”

Her… boyfriend? friend? Neelix nodded along. “We’ll be valuable colleagues.”

Chakotay was at a bit of a loss. “Colleagues?”

“We know you’ve lost crewmen. We just thought some extra hands might be useful,” Kes said gently.

Neelix bubbled along obliviously. “Whatever you need is what I have to offer. You need a guide? I'm your guide. You need supplies? I know where to procure them. I have friends among races you don't even know exist. You need a cook? Oh, you haven't lived until you've tasted my angla'bosque. It will be my job to anticipate your needs before you know you have them. And I anticipate your first need will be… me!”

B’Elanna and Seska both sat flabbergasted by the strange little alien. Chakotay considered the offer. Someone who knew the region? Supplies? Local food? Well, why not?

Kes looked at the three of them hanging in that silence with her big earnest blue eyes. “What you’re doing is going to be incredibly difficult, but also incredibly brave. Please, we both want very much to be part of your journey.”

Brave? That’s right, brave. Chakotay tried to pull the mantle back to him, the mantle of decision and determination of the future. He’d lost it, for a moment, to this little girl. Now she was handing it back. And there were a few things more he knew he had to do with it.

“You’re right. This ship does need more hands. Seska will see to it that you get an empty set of quarters. Welcome to the crew.”

When they were gone, he turned back to B’Elanna, thoughts churning. “We set out with a complement of twenty-two. We’ve lost Yosa, Doyle, Carlson, O’Donnell, and Ann. They were good people. It’s going to be hard to run this ship with under twenty.”

“We’ll manage. We always do.”

Chakotay got up. “We won’t have to.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

He had called her to his quarters. This was a talk they should have alone. She’d shed the uniform jacket, and she looked even smaller, maybe younger, in her military grey sleeves, her hair pulled back in a simple long ponytail.

“Crew quarters ok for you and Mr. Tuvok?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry about the doubles, we don’t have a lot of space on this boat, nearly everyone shares—”

“It’s good. Good for us not to be alone.”

That was more of an admission than he’d expected. But then, she was no longer the woman he’d met two days ago. The bright woman who commanded a room with a sweep of her eyes, who moved like a tightly coiled spring. Now she was gone. There was something… dead about the flatness of her voice, about the way she stared through him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, “about where we go from here. If you prefer, I can set you down on an inhabitable planet, or we might run into some friendly aliens like Neelix’s people. But… I’ve lost some good crewmen. We’re in a new quadrant, and Jor is the only one left with any science training. Plus… the Maquis aren’t exactly known to be diplomats.” What was supposed to be an offer had started to sound like a plea. Did she have that effect on everyone? “I’ve seen what you can do. I’d really like to have you by my side. As my second-in-command.”

She looked up sharply at that. “What would your crew think about that?”

“You’d have to give up the uniform, and we don’t stand by rank here. You’d have to do things our way. But they’d accept it. I won’t tolerate otherwise.”

“What about my crew?”

“Mr. Tuvok and Mr. Paris are about as popular as you are right now. I won’t lie to you— these are people we worked with personally, people who fought by our side, people we trusted with our lives. There’s a lot of anger around here. But I won’t let anyone get hurt. I won’t put them on regular duty shifts yet— they’ll have to earn _my_ trust back. Call it probation. Harry Kim can start whenever he likes. B’Elanna could really use a software guy, and it seems they get along all right.”

She nodded, still stiff. “I’ve already talked to them. Being put offship means losing any chance we have of going home. And we— Yes. Thank you. We will do our best to contribute to your crew.”

She paused. Chakotay realized she was waiting to be dismissed. Habits die hard. Just as well. “I found something, cleaning out the debris in the cargo bay. Something of yours.” He reached across the distance between them and handed her the picture frame. The front glass had shattered, but the old-fashioned paper photograph was still there. The photograph of her, smiling into the camera with a handsome greying man and a shaggy irish setter.

She held it, stared at it.

“Who is he?” Chakotay asked.

“Mark. My fiancé.”

He’d figured something like that. He still felt terrible about his next question. “Can I ask you something? Why’d you do it? Blow it up?”

She picked the photograph out of the shattered frame and tucked it into her palm. Now, now her eyes were bright as she looked away. “If we’d left it, in the hands of the Kazon… they would have wiped out the Ocampa. And who knows what else.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.

She’d given up her chance to go back to her fiancé, and made that choice for some hundred and sixty other people, including her closest friend, to save a race of a couple million. When you put it that way, by the numbers, it sounded pretty clear. Chakotay wondered whether he would have done the same.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you were wrong.” And then he let her go, with the order she needed to hear. “Dismissed.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

He gathered them all in the small mess to make his announcement. His speech. Spirits, he hated speeches. But when he saw how the four Feds were clumped on one side, not blending in despite their new brownclothes, and how Neelix and Kes stood alone in a corner, he knew a speech would be necessary.

Chakotay cleared his throat. “Now, all of you, look here." The tense murmurs stopped immediately. “We're alone, in an uncharted part of the galaxy. We’ve made some friends here,” he jabbed a finger at the two natives, who stood a little straighter, “but we’ve also made some enemies. We have no idea of the dangers we're going to face. But one thing is clear. We need all the hands we can get. Whatever our pasts, we’re now in this together. And if we want to survive, we’d better start by getting along. That's why I’ve decided to invite these people, these skilled people, to join us. To give up rank, give up uniforms, and to join our Maquis crew. And why I’ve decided to make Kathryn Janeway my exec.” The murmuring was starting, but Chakotay shut it down. “Let me remind you that Tuvok here acted out of his sense of duty. Misplaced duty, yes, but duty still to what he honestly believed in. Let me remind you, also, that two days ago Tom Paris saved my life. So, Mr. Paris, take this pardon and we’ll call it even. These people have lost their ship, their colleagues, and they’re just as alone as we are. Even more so.” He put genuine steel into his voice. “Anyone who gives them trouble will have to answer to me."

“Now. There’s one thing we’re all out here to do: to get back home, no matter what it takes. Even at maximum speeds, it would take this little ship several centuries to get back to the Alpha quadrant. But I’m not getting any younger,” he smiled, “and I’m not willing to settle for that. There's another entity like the Caretaker out there who has the ability to get us back a lot faster. We'll be looking for her, and we'll be looking for wormholes, spatial rifts, or new technologies to help us. You don’t follow me because of some oath, or because someone’s holding a phaser to your head. Anyone who wants to leave can settle. But I think you follow me because you trust me when I promise you this: we won’t rest until we find a way back, to our brothers and sisters, our lovers and parents and children. And because we’re a family who would rather stick together than live with strangers. We are Maquis, and we remember.”

Scattered murmurs echoed back. “We remember, we remember.”

He took a breath, after what seemed like a long time, in the absolute stillness after those last words. “Ok, back to work. I’m going back up there and setting a course. For home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not the first person to explore this alternate universe concept: I refer you to Keolah, who did it first in "Voyages of the Val Jean".


	2. Caretaker Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: a period of time between events or activities.

They were gathered in the mess. A single cargo crate, covered with a black cloth, was the focal point of the ragged circle.

Spirits, he hated speeches.

But these things had to be said.

“Ransom O’Donnell was a quiet guy from a big old-fashioned family. Not the kind you’d expect to run into in the Maquis. But once you started a conversation with him, you realized he was the piece of your soul you’d been missing all your life. He always knew the right thing to say. We all know Tom Carlson had a really rough life, a lot of sorrow. But day by day, he kept going. Tom was an inspiration, and a constant reminder of what it really means to be strong. Scotty Doyle was a scientist at heart, a scientist _with_ heart. It was his sense of ethics that brought him to us, and his sense of ethics that made us all better people for having known him. And Mark, Mark Yosa was the kind of man you could always trust to be straight with you, to give you his opinion. I can’t count the times he challenged me, the times I wanted to punch him in the face. But I also can’t count the times he had my back in a hairy fight. Finally, Ann Smithee. Ann may have been about five feet tall, but she could brawl and drink with the best of us. A day was never boring with Ann around; this ship is sadder and quieter without her.

“We’ve lost five members of our family. They fought with us, fought by us, they laughed with us and cried with us. This little ship is not the same without them. Some of them thought we were all going to a better place someday. Some of them didn’t. But what we know now, is that they’re still with us as long as we remember them, the best things about them. And if they were here, I know they’d be telling us to add their names to the reasons we keep fighting, and we keep living. To the reasons why we’ll keep trying to go back to the good fight.”

Chakotay raised his glass, and around him his crew did the same. The fifteen he had left. The six new additions. “To family, present and absent. Old and new.”

There were some murmurs, but mostly an echo of the toast. “To family.”

He ceded the floor to Janeway, for her words. She looked pale, tired, but then he realized that it was only because she, like a Maquis woman, was no longer wearing makeup. All four of the Fleeters had kept their dirty, singed uniform jackets and were wearing them today over their brownclothes.

She took the floor with unmistakeable, though subdued, presence. “The USS _Voyager_ set out with a crew complement of one hundred and forty one. She was a young crew, a distinguished crew. Bright people who’d barely had a chance to start their careers, their lives, but who were eager to serve and explore our galaxy. The numbers don’t do them justice. I didn’t know them. I can’t imagine all the ways, if things had gone differently, we would have come to grow as a family. But I will never forget them. And every breath we take, we who are living, is a breath we should cherish. Because there are so many others who are not so lucky to have what we have. Their deaths, their sacrifice, is why we’re standing here today. Can we accomplish, with our lives, all that they would have done with theirs?”

She raised her glass. “In memory.”

The murmured echo, this time, was indistinct. Several of his crew turned the toast into the Maquis words— deliberately similar? Her men’s voices stood out clear and strong. “In memory.”

Janeway retook her place by Tuvok’s side. Her hand touched his arm, in what looked like a comforting gesture. But knowing Vulcans, Chakotay suspected it was the small woman who took comfort from the contact.

“Now, please,” Chakotay moved. “Mr. Neelix has prepared some refreshments so that we can spend the evening honoring and celebrating stories of our friends. Their spirits walk among us tonight.”

The circle broke up into groups. Then Seska was by his side, their shoulders brushing, and he put an arm around her. His part, the hard part, was over. “Thanks, baby,” he whispered as the sound of talking rose.

She wrapped an arm around his waist. “You did good. That was beautiful.” She started leading him over to where B’Elanna and Kurt and Mike had taken seats around a table and a dark bottle. He nearly missed Janeway and Tuvok slipping out, but he wasn’t surprised. Paris was nowhere in sight.

“Hey Harry!” B’Elanna called before the kid could follow the others. “Come sit with us for a minute.”

And so it was that a twenty-two year old Starfleet ensign came to be sipping Trakian ale with the freedom fighters he’d been assigned to arrest. He listened to their war stories. He talked about his parents, about his girlfriend Libby a little. He got misty-eyed, and Mike Ayala clapped him on the back. He did a round of shots when Chakotay poured, but he had the sense to refuse B’Elanna’s drinking contest. He helped wipe Kurt’s vomit off the floor after said drinking contest. He blushed furiously when Seska, arm in arm with Chakotay, flirted with him. Or maybe that was the glow of brandy.

He ended up walking the long way around the ship, past his quarters several times, just round and round because for some reason, he was telling Mike his life story, his hopes and his dreams, and Mike was listening. Really listening, like no one ever listened to him. Round and round, the ensign went, while—

—in her room, B’Elanna Torres was drunk on brandy and the taste of victory, the taste of life flowing through her veins, and the sounds of life flowing through her ears as in the cabin next to hers, her two best friends were fucking. She slid to the floor in the middle of her empty cabin, her head spinning, her heart pounding, fascinated by his deep grunts as Chakotay—

—Chakotay pushed into his lover, and Seska was wrapped around him, her fingers digging into his back. “Make me feel it,” she pleaded in his ear. “Make me feel what you feel.” And when he circled his thumb in the press between their bodies, she gasped the words in both their hearts. “We’re alive. This is it. This is feeling alive. Be alive with me. We’re alive.” And the rhythm of their mounting crescendo was the rhythm of—

—the rhythm of fist on flesh and the rhythm of muted groans in the accessway of the lower deck where one man held another, twisted his arm back and up until he gave a small cry and bowed towards the floor. The rhythm of the third man’s heavy breathing as he paused in his boxing to spit on sandy hair. To say over and over again that —

— _they’re dead. They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead._ A captain without a ship, without a crew, clamped her mouth around her sleeve and bit down hard to muffle the screams of rage and impotence that threatened to tear through her. She rocked backward into the chest of her friend, over and over again, a dull impact that only slowed as his arms came around her—

—as bodies collapsed, together. Collapsed, alone. Collapsed spent, in passion. In pain. In anger. In grief. In loneliness. In strength. In helplessness. In silence. In darkness.

But not in death.

  
END EPISODE ONE


	3. Parallax Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrown together on a mission, the conflict between Janeway and Torres highlights the deep differences between an establishment scientist and a rebel engineer.
> 
> Part 1: Tensions between the Maquis and Starfleet crew culminate in violence.

Tom ignored the knocks. He lay on his back in the darkness of the bottom bunk, wishing for several reasons that he were asleep. But his nerves sang and prickled with attention. On some level, he was ready to spring up if someone came shoving through that door…

There were no locks on the cabins in the _Val Jean_. The knocking stopped. The door clicked, slid into the wall. Paused halfway. Without his head moving, Tom’s eyes picked out the figure invading his space, closing the door behind her in the shadows. The small, slight figure that could only be his former captain. He squeezed his eyes to slits and breathed evenly, cloaked, invisible.

"Tom."

Her voice was low, coming out of the stillness and darkness like it belonged to them. Yet it had that edge of command, the timbre he hadn’t heard at all in the week since _Voyager_. It thrummed at his tense nerves. It was good to hear she still had it.

"Tom, stand up."

Still gentle, but inexorable. There wasn’t going to be any way around this. Still safe under cloak of darkness, Tom flushed in anger and shame. His left eye throbbed. As smoothly as he could, he got out of the bunk. Not favoring his side. He stood there stiffly, sudden memories and unbidden comparisons flashing through his head.

 _Presenting before Father— shame, disgust, dismissal, worthless—_ He violently shoved those memories aside. Never. Never associate this woman with _him_. She didn’t deserve that.

Janeway reached over and flipped on the lights. Still dim, but enough to see him by. Tom blinked at the floor. A small gasp, and she was right in front of him. Her hand was cool and firm on his chin as she forced his head’s movements, examining. He didn’t mean to close his eyes; he should have had them open and defiant, but they were closed and burning with the humiliation. Deft fingers checked his chest, his ribs, through the material of his plain brown shirt. Noting, assessing where he couldn’t help but wince, finding the sharp pains and the old bruises.

"Who did this?" Her hand was back on his jaw. If her voice had been gently commanding before, it was smoldering now.

He opened his eyes, under control, but still staring off over her head rather than looking her in the face. "I fell down a hatch," he said without inflection or expectation of belief.

Her grip tightened a tiny bit, the pressure pulling his eyes down to look at hers. They were blue-grey, a sea in storm. "Who did this?" she repeated, in exactly the same tone. She was back— the woman who was not used to asking twice.

"Ca— Captain, please." He summoned a shadow of sarcasm to make it not pleading. "Let it go. It happens. Worse happens, in prison."

She just held his eyes, gave a tiny shake of her head. Not backing down. Willing to stand in silence in a sheer contest of wills. There was something horribly intimate about the low ceilings, the cramped confines of this little ship. The fact that they were out of uniform. He wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, to hold his own against the guys who came looking for him when he was alone in the corridor. And now… but this was different. A whole lifetime of protocol and hierarchy had been stamped into him, as much as he’d tried to escape it. Into both of them. It hadn’t felt like surrender when he lay gasping on the floor and their boots had finally walked away. It felt like surrender now, pinned by this small intense woman. He could only hope that she was safe to surrender to.

"Jackson," he whispered, looking away. She waited. "Dalby." She waited. He shook his head. "Just the two of them. After the memorial." She released his jaw. Turned away, paced. "What are you going to do?"

"Get you a dermal regenerator." She was wound up tight. "Talk to the skipper."

Tom shook his head. "Rules are different here. You show you can handle yourself, you don’t go tattling."

"We can’t fight these people," she spat. For a moment, her eyes flickered back to him. She almost looked like she wanted to. "There are more of them, this is their ship… and Chakotay’s right. We need to learn to get along. But either Chakotay can handle his people, or we _will_ show them we won’t be pushed around."

She turned without another word, a roiling nexus of decision. But she paused before the door. "Mr. Kim didn’t tell me," she added, for his benefit.

Then how—?

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

"You know the man better than I do," Janeway finished. "Do you think Chakotay will honor his commitment to our safety? Is he capable of maintaining order in his crew?"

She knew from his debriefing that Tuvok did not think highly of the skipper’s ideals or of his methods. But he was an honest judge of character. "Chakotay stands by his word, and as he has taken us on as crew, I believe he will consider his responsibilities towards us as equal to his responsibilities towards the Maquis crew. He maintains order by force of personality, and for the most part the crew are fiercely loyal. He does not hesitate to use some measure of physical intimidation and violence when he deems it necessary. I have observed it to be effective."

Janeway sighed and leaned back to the wall of Tuvok’s bed, the bottom bunk. There was nowhere else to sit side by side in the tiny cabin. "The rules are different here. We’re dealing with schoolyard bullies. If we’re seen to be appealing to authority, we will lose respect, not win it. I worry Tom will face reprisal. But answering violence with violence won’t solve the problem either."

"Chakotay commands the authority and the personal respect to effectively change the perpetrators’ behavior. We do not. He must be made aware of the situation."

"But without it coming from us."

"Precisely."

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Tuvok had wanted to be involved, but they both knew that his martial ability would raise the stakes of their gambit to an actual threat, and that Chakotay was less likely to treat him favorably. No, this was an op for Janeway and Kim.

She briefed him on his simple instructions the next evening. Then they had a quiet, tense meal in the mess, sitting near the table where Jackson and Dalby were playing poker. Janeway had noted the group, intent on learning the social dynamics of the small crew. Chell, Gerron, Jarvin. Tuvok had described Jackson as a friend of Seska’s, the former exec and Chakotay’s intimate partner. Janeway had barely seen Seska in the last week. She wondered whether that had been deliberate on the other woman’s part— it meant Janeway had no idea what the Bajoran engineer thought of the Federation captain who’d claimed her place as exec. Dalby had a notable temper, troubled and angry. Tuvok said he’d rarely been sociable, except for a protective concern for young Gerron. Had that changed in these new circumstances? Gerron was by far the youngest member of the crew. Janeway guessed the Bajoran boy was about seventeen. Harry Kim was twenty-two, and even he seemed too young to be on a starship. Tuvok had described the Bolian, Chell, as the social heart of the crew— well liked, but unreliable in his responsibilities. Jarvin was a friend of B’Elanna Torres, a young electrical engineer. Tuvok had had precious little good to say about the crew. His former roommate, Ayala, was the only exception.

The back of her neck prickled. She had deliberately seated herself with her back to their table. She went along with Kim’s halting attempts at smalltalk while they ate the chalky stew the Talaxian cook had made from some local root vegetable. She stood as soon as she’d finished. "I’m going to stretch my legs before retiring," she informed Kim. She didn’t glance around as she headed out, her destination the dim twisty third deck connecting the engine core with other main systems.

They were quiet, she gave them that. She didn’t hear footsteps behind her until Jackson spoke. "And what would you be doing down here?" he sneered. "A little sabotage, maybe?"

Janeway turned cooly. He was the only Maquis visible, but she was sure he wouldn’t have come alone. "I thought it might be a good place for a private chat."

Jackson grinned wolfishly, stepping closer. "Oh, ho! I can think of some _private_ things to do with a Fed bitch."

It was not the words he said to her that made her blood rise. It was the thought of him grinning like that, advancing on Tom Paris while Dalby held the helmsman in a chokehold. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed two fistfuls of Jackson’s collar. "You," she snarled, forgetting for a moment that this was supposed to be an act. "You hurt one of mine. Where I come from, we solve our differences with words. I hear you speak a _different language_.”

"You really came here to fight me?" One of his large hands was around her wrist, the other came up to take a fistful of hair. But it was still posturing, she sensed, and less full-hearted than before.

She glared up at him. "You know what it’s like to serve with someone, those binds of loyalty. I was his _captain_. I am responsible for his safety. If you have a problem— with _any_ of us— you take your problem to _me_.”

Dalby stepped out from the shadows. There was real hatred in his voice. "We _do_ have a problem. With the Federation, but _especially_ with you. You, you _destroyed_ —“

"What’s going on here?" It was Torres, strident, having just turned the corner. Janeway dropped her hands from Jackson’s collar— he was left holding her by the wrist and the hair.

Dalby shrugged. "We caught the Federation bitch who blew up our way home. Sneaking around, maybe going to blow us up too."

Torres elbowed past him. "Let go," she spat at Jackson, who did so very quickly.

Janeway straightened. "Thank—" The backhand snapped her head around with a white-black crack across her vision. She was on the floor, cheek flat against cool metal mesh.

Torres’ voice was harder and colder. "This one’s _mine_.”

The other two backed off as Janeway regained her feet. So much for thinking that Chakotay’s officer, Kim’s friend, would be a sensible back door to his ear. Torres had dropped into a fighting crouch. Change of plans. Bullies— picking on the weak. But they weren’t weak. The memory of Tom was fresh in her mind, his lip split and swollen, his eyes circled in darkening blue, the way they’d crinkled when she’d touched his lowest rib. The rules were different here, but her job was the same: serve and lead and protect. She scrabbled to her feet, feeling nothing on her face where Torres had struck her. Just a wetness on her tongue. Just a hot pressure in her head.

Torres surged forward for a tackle. Her mouth was open in a silent yell in the close confines of the ship. Janeway’s training held. Two light, distracting jabs to the face turned the onrush into evasion. Now in close quarters, she grabbed Torres close to the scalp and her knee came up into the other woman’s stomach, doubling her over. She shoved her away, hoping that would take the fight out of her.

But the half-Klingon was not winded. Instead of stumbling back, she came up with an elbow under Janeway’s chin, grabbed her arm and twisted their momentum around until she was pressed against the wall. Something painful was happening behind the ringing in her head— oh, the Klingon was furiously pummeling her ribs. Janeway boxed her hard in the eye, which drove her back a step and provided a moment of relief.

“You took away _everything we had,_ ” Torres snarled. Janeway wanted to reply, but suddenly found that breathing was like being on fire. "You destroyed our lives. I am going to fuck— you— up."

Janeway steeled herself for the charge. She felt slow, too slow compared to the woman who was ten years younger and much stronger. But she braced against the wall, ready to aim an elbow against a thick skull. But before Torres gathered herself—

"ENOUGH!"

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

There was Chakotay, the particular presence and smell of him. He and Torres squared off with sharp words, as Janeway tried to catch her breath against the wall. Torres stormed off, and the others seemed to have slunk away. Chakotay put a firm hand on her elbow and steered her back into the main corridor. She said some words, some thanks, and brushed off his hand. She was standing and walking fine. The bright hall was clearing her head, but also stabbing pain into the back of her eyes. There was blood in her mouth. She would have to spit it out later.

Outside her cabin, Chakotay stopped, took her by the shoulders and looked at her with concern. Said something, but she missed the exact words. She nodded, attempted a wan smile. He knocked, opened the door, and Tuvok was there, the lightest touch on her arm. Her rock. She went to sit down on his bunk. Seemed like a good idea. Before Chakotay left, Tuvok stopped him, leaned close, said something.

She was in pain. Something felt right about that. She kept seeing the satisfaction in Torres’ eyes as she pummeled the person who had ruined her life. She was a captain who had lost her ship, killed most of her crew. Yes, something felt right about the pain.

Then Tuvok came back to her, dermal regenerator in his hand. He asked something, soft brown eyes full of worry. Held his hand up. She reached out for it, because she was about to fall, and it was a long way down. Instead, she vomited chalky stew.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

"One more thing," the large Vulcan paused him as he was opening the door. His emotionless, traitor’s eyes sized him up. "This is the first and last time she is harmed by your people."

Chakotay held the reins of his anger. "I’ll put a stop to it."

He immediately went to find B’Elanna in the quarters she shared with Seska. It was not a door he needed to knock at.

She was in front of the mirror, stripped down to her dark grey sports bra and poking at her lower ribs. As she looked up, Chakotay saw that the skin around her left eye was already starting to swell. "You ok? You’re going to have a hell of a black eye," he said, closing the door behind him.

"Yeah, well. You should see the other guy."

"I did. You certainly won that fight. Did it make you feel better?"

She startled at the hardness in his voice, the thin layer of concealment around his anger. "What would make me _feel better_ would be getting the hell back to the Alpha quadrant. But yeah, getting those Feds off our ship would help."

"They have nowhere to go."

"That’s her own damn fault."

"We need skilled people," he spat.

"We’ve always made do before."

"Dammit, B’Elanna! I’ve made them a part of this crew, and that’s what they are now."

"They’ll _never_ be a part of this crew. How can we just ignore what they’ve done, back home— _and_ here?"

"I’m not asking you to forget. But I _am_ telling you to work with them, not _beat on them_." He shook his head. "I just don’t know what to say, B’Elanna. Honestly, Dalby and Jackson didn’t surprise me. But you— you’re my chief engineer. I expect you to deal with problems responsibly. I wish you’d set a better fucking example. You’ve turned this into one lousy day for me.”

She deflated, gaze flickering away. "I know, Chakotay. I know I shouldn’t have. I just walked by— and I was angry.” She shrugged, checked him from the corners of her eyes. “I wasn’t thinking."

It would be so easy to forgive her, so long as it didn’t happen again. They were family, after all. But this wasn’t the Alpha quadrant anymore. This wasn’t fighting the good fight. If anything, this incident had shown him that he needed more control. Not more forgiveness. "Then _start_ thinking."

It was not the response she’d expected after a capitulation. She bristled once again. "What do you want me to do? Be _nice_ to them?"

"I want you to be _civil_ to them. And to start with, I want you to apologize to Janeway."

" _Apologize_? She’s the one who—"

"I don’t want to hear it. Not just a simple apology. A personal one, over a hot cup of pejuta. Try to get to know her; she’s a decent engineer."

"I don’t want to get to know her. And I certainly don’t want her in my engine room."

"B’Elanna. I’ve raised her to exec. She’s going to be doing your duty rosters, reading your reports. If we’re in a crisis, I expect you to follow her orders. Or did you not _think_ about that?"

B’Elanna gave him a long, narrow look. "I sure hope you know what you’re doing."


	4. Parallax Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrown together on a mission, the conflict between Janeway and Torres highlights the deep differences between an establishment scientist and a rebel engineer.
> 
> Part 2: A view of the situation is distorted by the angle from which we see it.

It was strange having so many people at a briefing. They sat informally in the mess, some with their chairs turned back-to-front, some eating breakfast. Janeway sat on one side of him, leaning back, looking pensive and speaking little. Seska sat on the other, his comforting right-hand. B’Elanna was next to Seska, and on her other side sat young Harry Kim, who looked like he’d rather be invisible. He wasn’t an officer here by any means; Chakotay had assigned him to integrate the computer systems in engineering and ops under B’Elanna and Seska. But he’d asked the young man to come sit on the briefing, mostly to make Janeway not be the only outsider. Mike rounded up the circle. Janeway and B’Elanna both sported some marks from yesterday’s fight. They hadn’t had that cup of pejuta yet, he could tell from the tension at the table.

The systems reports were not great, but not bad either. The damage from the Kazon fight had been patched up with spare parts. Chakotay felt lucky that they were out here in such a hardy little ship, used to going a long time without starbase repairs. And he felt lucky to have B’Elanna, who knew every inch of maintenance on board.

The mess door opened, and the little alien Neelix bustled in, elfin Kes in tow. Instead of sitting down to breakfast, they headed straight for the command circle and hovered. "Sorry we’re late," Neelix interjected, "but I wasn’t informed there was a meeting this morning." He looked around at the circle, and at the rest of the mess. "Oh, we’ll just pull up some chairs then."

"Neelix. I appreciate the nav heading you gave us, but this is a meeting for the department heads.” Too many people here would take this ship down the road of bureaucracy.

The strange alien was not at all deterred. Chakotay wondered whether he’d misunderstood, or just ignored him. "I see. Well, I, I’m the head Talaxian on board. Kes is the head Ocampan. And I do know more about this region of space than any other member of the crew."

Chakotay was still about to kick them out, until soft-spoken Kes said in that surprisingly low voice of hers, "We do have some excellent suggestions, Captain."

For a moment, Chakotay felt like a dirty old man as he thought of some excellent suggestions lithe Kes could whisper into his ear. He quickly shook off that thought. But, he supposed, local expertise would come in handy. "Fine. You can join us— _this_ time."

Ayala and Kim slid their seats apart to make room for the two new chairs. The tight circle was suddenly lopsided. But they’d see whether these people could make good on their promise to contribute. He looked at Kes. "I’m open to excellent suggestions."

"I’ve noticed that you have space for a aeroponics garden, but it’s not maintained. I understand that replicator rations are low, and it would be good to grow our own food."

"That was Doyle’s project," Chakotay said quietly into the awkward silence.

Kes looked abashed. "I’m sorry, I don’t mean to—“

"No, it’s a good idea. When can you start?"

"Right away."

Neelix bumbled in. "I can do some wonderful things with vegetables, Captain. My feragoit goulash is known across twelve star systems."

Briefly, Chakotay wondered what the dish was, before the translator had approximated it as goulash. He gave Neelix a cursory nod and turned back to the business of the briefing.

"Ok, the personnel situation. Kathryn Janeway here is your new exec. She’ll be managing the duty roster and inventory, and I expect you to go to her with problems in your systems, and to give her every respect you would give to me or to Seska. Harry Kim here is our new software guy. He’s interfacing with engineering but reporting to Seska. I’m putting Tom Paris and Tuvok on probationary shifts in navigation and security; they’re skilled men, and I expect their duties to grow. I still want to find someone willing to train up as a field medic; we’re seriously lacking in that area."

Janeway spoke up. "Mr. Paris studied biochemistry at the Academy."

"Good enough. Please inform him of his new duties. Kes will be in charge of aeroponics, and I’m willing to give Neelix reign over the mess in addition to plotting our course.” He looked at the Talaxian. "Unless you have some other area where you think your skills could—" The tiny ship lurched and rocked violently, nearly throwing them to the ground. They’d dropped out of warp. "Stations everyone!"

It was a short dash up the stairs the bridge, and Chakotay quickly ordered Kim to take Kes somewhere out of the way. It would be crowded enough up there. He’d have to make sure the newcomers were drilled in some basic protocols. "Why did we lose the warp field?’’ he demanded of the two women, Jor and Mariah, who usually took relief shift together.

“It’s B’Elanna’s safety program,” the soft-spoken pilot explained as she ceded the helm. “A massive object on our course, skewing our warp field.”

Mariah ducked past Neelix as Seska read off her instruments. “The computer thinks it’s twenty-k kliks aft. There’s also something off about the parallax compensation, trying to fix it.”

Chakotay wrestled with the helm to bring the ship to relative rest, but only managed to put the ship into a slow spin while the starfield continued to drift starboard. “Helm’s not responding normally; I can’t bring us to a stop.”

Crammed into the tiny disused science console at the back of the cockpit, Janeway finished a first-pass analysis. "It’s a Kerr-Newman singularity, estimated mass: seven thousand five hundred standard solar units.” Chakotay’s console alerted him that she was logging the sensor data.

Neelix was the only person who was looking out at the increasingly distorted starfield instead of at a readout. “This is impossible! Captain Chakotay, I swear there was no black hole here. Why, this is a standard trade route, I’ve flown it many— Oh. Oh my. You might want to look out the window.” The ship’s rotation had brought a bright edge of gravitational lensing into view, and now, on the other side of the bright band of starlight, complete darkness was slowly taking over the left side of the viewport. “What, what is that?”

“That,” said the new science officer, “is what a black hole looks like when we’re too close for comfort. We must be approaching the photon sphere. Captain, we need to maintain this acceleration, keep our orbit from decaying.”

“We’re at full impulse. I’ve stabilized our radius, but the helm is confused about our angular velocity.”

“That’s all right, it’s an effect of the singularity’s rotation. These calculations are going to be tricky…”

He kept a visual of her screen in the corner of his, but the equations she was absorbed in were unfamiliar. He was about to call B’Elanna when Seska interjected with a warning. “Chakotay, I’m detecting two other ships in higher orbits; they’ve pincered us, keeping their distance.”

“Hailing them.” No sooner had he sent the comm than the reply registered on their consoles. “They’ve reflected back our opening hail…”

“Those aren’t ships,” Janeway looked up from her work. “We’re detecting ourselves, as our signals travel around the lightlike orbit and reach us half a second later.”

Seska’s voice, carefully neutral, nevertheless conveyed her skepticism. “If that’s true, why are they above us?”

Janeway thought about it for a beat. “Parallax. Our view of the situation is distorted by the angle from which we see it. Light from our aft reaches us tangent to our orbit, making it seem like there’s another ship out there along that tangent. The computer tries to compensate for parallax using its estimate of the local gravitational metric, placing the ship closer to the black hole than it appears, but since the field isn’t spherically symmetric… the system is having trouble with the shift.”

Seska and Chakotay exchanged a wry, private smile. “Well, science sure livens up the bridge,” she commented. “What do you say we skip the technobabble and get out of this joint?”

“B’Elanna to the bridge. Hey, how long are you planning to run my engines hot?”

He was still looking at Seska, distracted by the way she was toying with her earring. “Just as long as it takes for you to build me a stable warp field. How does that sound?”

“I’m already on it. Half an hour, maybe.”

That was the B’Elanna he knew— a solution for every problem.

“Ah,” Neelix offered from the door, “Isn’t it, well, _dangerous_ to go to warp near a massive body? We’re not past the event horizon yet— why not escape at impulse?”

B’Elanna’s tinny voice was exasperated over the comm. “That would take longer, and ridiculous amounts of our power reserves. No, we’ll just tunnel through. With a solar system, you’ve got to worry about the gravitation from the warp bubble affecting planets, moons, other ships. Our field’s not going to hurt the black hole.”

“Keep us updated, B’Elanna.” Chakotay signed off.

"Captain." Janeway waited for him to turn and acknowledge her. "This singularity’s gravimetric shear is particularly tricky. Maybe it’s the instruments, but the geometry is not one I’ve ever seen before. Ms. Torres will have to compensate for the angle between the rotation axis and the magnetic moment… ”

Chakotay caught Seska rolling her eyes in his direction.

"B’Elanna knows her job. I’m sure she will. And, I’ll note, the sensors passed diagnostics a month ago— I wouldn’t blame the instruments. "

"Sir, I’m not calling her engineering capabilities into question. But does she have any background in astrophysics?"

Her careful tone was needling him. "Permission granted to get down there and look over her calculations. I’ll walk you down." When they were in the corridor, he thought a bit about how to say what was wrong with the way she’d spoken. _With typical Fed-centric pretentiousness_ was not going to sound good. "You’re right that B’Elanna isn’t an expert in astrophysics," he started.

"My intention was to offer expertise and help without implying that she couldn’t handle it. I’m not sure I succeeded."

"Oh, you got that across, but… how can I say this? Doing that sounds patronizing. Around here, when we have something to offer, we just offer it. Sometimes egos get bruised, but we can live with that. You didn’t need to wait until the comm connection was cut. I want you to talk directly to her, not through me. And we’re not overly formal about protocol— so don’t call me `sir’."

Janeway nodded. "I understand. I have to admit, it’s a little strange navigating social protocols that aren’t grounded in Starfleet."

They’d crossed the two decks down to Engineering. "I’m sure you’ll figure it out. So. I take it you _are_ an expert in astrophysics?" Paris did biochem, she did astrophysics… he made a note to ask her for all the details of their personnel files.

She paused at the door and looked at him, as if momentarily surprised. "Well, yes, I am."

"Of course."

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

As soon as he got back to the bridge, Seska informed him that there’d been a call from Jarvin and Kim, who’d been going through the _Voyager_ debris in the cargo bay. Apparently they’d gotten that backup computer core fixed up, and were ready to plug it in. So, Chakotay turned about and climbed back down to the third deck. All this exercise was good for him.

Kim was enthusiastic in a way Chakotay had not yet seen in the quiet young man. It was good to see his eyes light up again, good to see that one of the _Voyager_ crew was integrating, at least. Chakotay granted him permission to plug the core into _Val Jean_ computer systems, under supervision, and then he decided to stick around to see the results. Nothing else interesting would be going on until Torres finished. He tried not to wonder how awkwardly the two women were getting along in Engineering. Instead, he watched Harry Kim do programming magic, and noted to his discomfort that the young man clearly could hack past _Val Jean_ ’s security in about two minutes. Chakotay was pretty sure there had been safeguards against adding extra servers. But he had given permission, and so the kid had bypassed them without further ado. Will Jarvin, the somber young electrical engineer, stood back and watched with caution and curiosity.

To Kim’s delight, the core contained an uncorrupted copy of the Federation database. With everything from Academy training courses to a better UT program to music and literature, Chakotay had to admit that it was a treasure trove. He set Kim the task of updating the ship’s and communicators’ UT, and setting up the module as a permanent addition to their computing power. There was also something else in the core— a large holomatrix. Kim realized that this must be _Voyager_ ’s Emergency Medical Hologram— programmed with the most up-to-date Federation medical procedures. Unfortunately, the ship had no holodeck.

"Wait," Jarvin remembered. "We have that set of holoemitters in storage, the one we were going to sell. We could rig up a single room for limited projection. It runs on its own power source, isn’t compatible with any of our other systems."

"I can do that," offered the ever-helpful Harry Kim. "It would only take about an hour. Sickbay, I assume?"

Chakotay gave the order. "I’m sure Mr. Paris would appreciate having some help in the medbay. Make it your priority. And… good work."

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

The cargo bay was as good a place as any to leave the core module hooked into ship’s systems. Harry had been in what passed for the ship’s server room — there wasn’t space in there to walk through the wiring, much less install another rack. So while Jarvin dug up the holoemitters, Harry found a dolly and loaded up his toolkit.

Jarvin seemed like a decent sort. The first thing he’d said, when they were alone in the cargo bay, was that he was sorry for what had happened to Paris and Janeway. Jackson was an asshole, he said, and Darby… well, Darby had some anger problems. More than usual, that is, around here. But Chakotay would set them straight.

Harry’s enthusiasm before Chakotay hadn’t entirely been put on. This was a piece of Starfleet— and the database was a piece of home. But as he and Jarvin amiably wheeled the dolly across the ship and up a deck to the medbay, it was guilt that kept crawling back into his thoughts. While his colleagues were getting beaten in the halls, the Maquis crew seemed to have no problem accepting him as one of their own. But he _wasn’t_ one of them. He may have had to recycle his dirty uniform, but he was still Starfleet without the clothes. Kathryn Janeway was still his captain, and yesterday he’d let her go off alone to deliberately provoke a confrontation. To get hurt. Because those were her orders.

He’d gone to sit with B’Elanna. Waited for Jackson and Darby to leave their table, given it three minutes, then asked her to walk and talk about getting him the tools he’d need for the core. He’d made sure they walked by the spot Janeway had picked out, made sure they heard the confrontation.

B’Elanna had sent him off right away to fetch Chakotay. "What’s going on here?" he heard her call. Then, "Let go." Chakotay had ordered him back to his quarters, hadn’t let him follow back to the fight. Maybe those were the orders he should have disobeyed. Then he would have seen for himself.

The rumor was that B’Elanna and Captain Janeway had fought. Not that B’Elanna had broken it up. He’d brought her there to stop it, and she’d made it worse. Could he believe it? She’d avoided his eyes at the morning briefing. Maybe that was confirmation enough. But then why had she sent him to get Chakotay? Why?

The silent trip was too short for Harry to finish working it out. Too soon they arrived at the cramped medbay, previously unstaffed. The room was not an energy priority, and had obviously been used for storage. It was half-lit, debris from some distant battle piled against one wall. The surgical console was off, but several medkits lay open for inventory on the single biobed. Tom Paris had one hip hitched casually on the bed as he talked with the slight elfin woman, Kes. They looked up.

"Sorry to interrupt," Harry waved. "But your loneliness might be at an end, Tom. We think we’ve found the medical hologram from _Voyager_."

Tom hopped off the bed. In the light, Harry could see that he’d done an improved job on regenerating his bruising. "Does this bucket even have holoemitters?" His eyes darted quickly to Jarvin. Wary and a little insolent. "No offense."

"None taken."

Tom turned back to Kes as Harry and Jarvin unloaded what were very obviously a set of intact, though old-style, holoemitters. Jarvin set them up in the four corners of the room while Harry ran computer compatibility checks. "Did you have holograms on Ocampa? We know the Caretaker had advanced holotechnology."

She shook her head. "I don’t think so. Not like the doctor on _Voyager_."

Harry was surprised and paused in checking over the emitter coverage while the computer accessed the huge matrix from the _Voyager_ module. "Oh, you’ve seen him? I thought you were going to be in for a surprise."

“Harry— ”

"It’s all right, Tom. When Neelix and your crewmates rescued me from the Kazon, I was hurt. They took me to the Sickbay right away, and your doctor treated me."

"Oh, of course."

"In a way, he was the first of you I really talked to."

"Not exactly the best conversationalist," Tom quipped.

"I just hope the program hasn’t been damaged." Harry brought up the initialization sequence and keyed in his access. “Here goes…”

In the center of the room, the image of a balding middle-aged man appeared. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” the program intoned.

“No emergency,” Harry corrected. “Just a test run. The diagnostic checks out. Do you remember your previous activations?”

“Of course. I was inundated with casualties during the attack.” The hologram looked around the room dryly. “Ensign Kim. Mr. Paris. Kes, a member of the Ocampan species.” He stopped at Jarvin. “I don’t recognize you. Or this sorry excuse for a sickbay.”

Jarvin straightened and walked up to the uniform-clad hologram. “My name is William Jarvin. You’re aboard the USS _Val Jean_ , a Maquis vessel. Your ship was destroyed.” His shoulders fell a little. “Most of its crew are dead. The survivors are here, have joined up with us. We’re still in the Delta quadrant. There’s no Starfleet here. Chakotay, the captain, will want to talk to you. And I guess we should change your clothes.”

The holoprogram effected a moment of speechlessness. He turned to Harry. “Who is the ranking officer on board?”

Given that Jarvin had just named Chakotay as the captain, Harry knew what the Starfleet program meant. “Captain Janeway is here. And Lieutenant Tuvok. And me and Paris. That’s it.”

“Have you been harmed? Mistreated? Are you captives, or under duress?”

This time it was Tom who spoke up quickly. “Hey, Doc. Why don’t you save the questions for the Captain? Either of them. You’re probably programmed to take Janeway’s word over ours, anyway.”

Jarvin looked to Harry. “Is he going to be a problem? I mean, can we reprogram him to not be Starfleet anymore?”

The hologram’s simulated look of mild alarm was nearly amusing. But Harry had to be honest. “I’m not good enough at holoprogramming to do much with him. His program is very complex— a brand-new model.”

“Mr. Jarvin, let me assure you that I am a doctor, not an agitator. I will treat anyone who needs my care, whether they are Maquis or Starfleet or,” he nodded towards Kes, “an alien whose biochemistry I’ve never seen before. However, given the circumstances, I do request to see the Captain and Lieutenant Tuvok, as assurance that they are, in fact, aboard.”

Jarvin eyed him. “That’s fine. It’s strange to have a computer program making demands. He looks very realistic.”

“His appearance and his mannerisms were patterned after his creator, Louis Zimmerman. A sort of self-portrait,” Harry offered.

“Not really the kind of guy I’d want to have a beer with,” was Tom’s comment.

Jarvin ignored the hologram’s beginning of a retort and keyed the comm on the wall. “Bridge, we’ve got the Starfleet holo-doctor down here. Chakotay should probably check him out. He also wants to talk to Janeway.”

Seska answered. “I’ll let him know. Don’t leave the program unsupervised.”

While they waited, Harry gave Jarvin a high-level tour of the matrix, and they tried unsuccessfully get the program to call up the replicator database for a different clothing template. It was a puzzle that would take a bit more doing. Obviously bored, Tom went back to his inventory project. Kes, meanwhile, was trying to strike up a conversation about aeroponics with the hologram.

By the time they felt the warp core shudder to life, it was clear that Chakotay had better things to do than come chat with a hologram. Like deal with the fact that they were hovering on the edge of a singularity. But when the ship gave a sudden lurch and the sound of the engines cut out, the two technicians quickly deactivated the holoprogram under a security lock and went running for Engineering. The corridors tilted beneath them as the inertial dampers struggled with extreme gravitational stress.


	5. Parallax Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrown together on a mission, the conflict between Janeway and Torres highlights the deep differences between an establishment scientist and a rebel engineer.
> 
> Part 3: A hot cup of pejuta with a cold splash of reality.

“B’Elanna?”

Simon Hogan was timid. Too damn timid to be in the Maquis. Blonde, big eyes, question lift. B’Elanna rounded on him with all her pent-up frustration. “Unless you’re done patching that lateral plasma conduit, Hogan, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Um,” he mumbled. “She’s not using your numbers. Running her own simulation.”

“What the hell? Here, finish this up.” She left him to watch the safety crosscheck of the injector programming. Around the other side of the squat blue engine core, Janeway and Michael Jonas were intent upon a console, talking quietly and intensely.

B’Elanna slammed her fist down on the top of the workstation, and only at the last moment changed it into a stinging open palm. Open palms are less hostile than fists. Less hostile. “Stop. Right now. What do you think you’re doing?”

Janeway looked up with cool grey eyes that didn’t budge an inch. “I’m narrowing the error bars on your field parameters using a simulation of the singularity.”

The nails of her other hand were curled into her palm. “I told you how to set the dilithium matrix. I expect you to do it.” Keep it calm. Calm.

Janeway was conciliatory. Fucking conciliatory. “We’ve gathered more sensor data in the last half hour, which suggests that the initial model was oversimplified.” Patronizing. “Below standards of accuracy.”

“ _Starfleet_ standards, you mean. Look, Janeway. If I set the frame orientation to point-five microns, there’s a _reason_ I set it to point-five microns. I’ve been running this ship outside of Starfleet standards for two years. She runs _better_ for it. And you know what? When you waltz in here— into _my_ engine room— and say your degree in astrophysics means I should change my warp calculations— you know what I did? I didn’t throw you out. I let you stay, to _advise_ me. And I listened. But don’t you think for one second that you have anything on me when it comes to actual engineering.”

“I was under the impression that—”

“Oh, and it’s great that Chakotay’s made you his glorified secretary. You can do those duty rosters, and read what reports this crew bothers to give you. Analyze some data no one cares about. You might think you still have some modicum of power out there.” The engineering crew, _her_ engineering crew, was gathered around. Hogan. Jonas. Jackson. Only Carlson was missing. “But this room, this room belongs to us. The engineers. The ones who do the real work of making sure this bucket keeps humming. So when you’re in here, you shut up and listen to the _experts_. Or you get out.”

B’Elanna counted her breaths as she stared down the older Fed woman. Slower breaths, slower.

Of course, Chakotay had to choose that moment to come in and check on her progress. He stopped just inside the door. “Problem?”

She eyed Janeway, daring her to say something. “Well, that depends.”

To her credit, Janeway didn’t break her gaze to go whining to the Captain. “We were discussing the difference between guesswork and data-driven modeling,” she said mildly.

“I was explaining the peer-reviewed Maquis method called 'having finely honed instincts’.”

“I was about to mention that lapse flight safety protocols were the cause of our warp-proximity to a massive object in the first place.”

Chakotay cut her off. “All right, all right. The rest of you, get back to work. We’re burning deuterium every minute we fight this thing at impulse. B’Elanna, just tell me your status.”

“We’re ready to go. I’ve fixed the parameters for the warp field we want to generate. They take into account her model of this thing’s local spacetime metric. It’s not a great model— because we don’t have good sensor data,” she added quickly, “but it’s good enough. We either build this bubble now, or we take another half hour of simulations to get ten percent smaller error.”

Chakotay looked over at his new exec. “Is that accurate?”

“Yes. I would like to add that the error bars on these parameters are outside standard— outside the safety level I’m comfortable with.”

“Chakotay, if our warp field starts to destabilize, I can collapse it, and we’ll be no worse off. It’s worth a try now, before we waste another half hour of our energy reserves.”

“I take it your objection is that there are too many unknowns, too much risk we can’t estimate.” Janeway nodded. “B’Elanna, how certain are you that you can collapse a faulty warp field?”

“As certain as I am any other time your lives all depend on my decision.”

“That’s good enough for me.” He held a hand up to pause Janeway’s next words. “Good enough under Starfleet standards is not the same as good enough under Maquis standards. In the Maquis, we can’t afford the luxury of always playing it safe; we don’t have the resources to spend on lengthy analysis. There’s an instinct you develop for picking your risks. For choosing your battles. I imagine you’ll be a quick study at that.”

Janeway looked down, her mouth set in a thin line. “Aligning dilithium lattice orientation.”

B’Elanna sprang into motion, feeling that buzz of victory. “Simon, what’s your status?”

“Matter-antimatter injectors are programmed and ready.”

“Michael?”

“Magnetic coils are taking input code.”

“JD?”

Jackson was on his back beneath the warp core. “Plasma conduits are open.”

She returned to her main engineering console. “Sending bearing to the helm. Initializing the warp field.” The familiar hum started deep in her bones as she watched the matter-antimatter reaction. The field looked good. Asymmetric, as expected, but continuous. “Jumping to warp.” In a moment, they’d crossed into subspace. But she could see the warp field start to distend, going pear-shaped. “Dammit.” Janeway was entering in manual corrections, but B’Elanna could already see they weren’t quite right. “It’s not enough,” she called over. “I’m pulling the plug.” She shut the injector ports off, dropped in all the control rods, watched the reaction rate plummet. The little ship shuddered as it dropped out of warp. The blue glow of the core died out. “It was worth a try. We almost made it.”

“What’s our current location?”

Janeway was getting the sensor feeds on her console. “We’ve gained five thousand kilometers on our orbit and moved halfway around the singularity.”

“It’s progress; I’ll take it. Redo your calculations while B’Elanna cold-starts the core.”

Janeway stopped him on his way out. “It won’t be that simple, Captain. We need a better map of the local spacetime metric. A much better map.”

“Well all we’ve got are these sensors.” B’Elanna was already double-checking that the shutdown hadn’t put strain on any core components. “You’ll just have to make do.”

“That’s not all we have. The _Val Jean_ has one shuttlecraft. With sensors at two fixed known points, we can triangulate the local spacetime much faster.”

“Even if we used the shuttle, it would take much too long. We don’t have the deuterium to maintain this orbit for even two hours. We need to keep trying, hopscotch our way out.”

“My plan _conserves_ our deuterium,” Janeway retorted. She checked her console and turned to the Captain. “At our current tangent velocity, if we cut our engines we’ll have almost five hours of freefall before the gravitational stresses endanger our structural integrity. That’s plenty of time to triangulate a route out.”

B’Elanna’s hands were flying over her console. “We’d cross the event horizon, but that’s no matter; we’re getting out of here in subspace anyway.”

Chakotay smiled. “B’Elanna, cut the impulse engines and make sure your crew is ready to cold-start the core in your absence. Then join Janeway on the shuttle pad. I agree that a shuttle mission is exactly what we need.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

The shuttle bay was a glorified airlock at the back of the ship, barely big enough to contain the ancient boxy brown craft they’d bought off a Yridian smuggler. The hatch on its side was open when B’Elanna got there, and she climbed in to find Janeway sitting in the cockpit with a mug between her hands. She nodded towards a second mug on the dashboard. “These were here when I arrived. It’s not coffee, but it’s good.”

“It’s pejuta,” she said, setting her engineering kit in the back of the shuttle and swinging into the copilot seat. “And you can thank Chakotay.”

They crosschecked each others’ systems. “I take it it’s some kind of inside joke?”

B’Elanna gave her a sidelong glance “Something like that. You ever flown a Yridian shuttle before?”

“Looks pretty similar to a class two shuttlecraft.”

“Yeah, built around the same time. Her left turns lag, she doesn’t run past warp 4. Energy efficient, though. Good shields. Do you want me to take helm?”

“No, I figured you would rather be taking the data.”

B’Elanna shrugged. “Guess so.”

They launched in silence. Janeway had entered a flight path that made it obvious how she planned to do the mapping. B’Elanna synced the sensors to the helm and had them trading telemetry with _Val Jean_ every ten minutes. Then she sat back, brought the steaming tea to her lips, and watched the sharp profile of the other woman.

“I’m supposed to apologize to you,” she said finally. “For the fight. That’s what the pejuta means.”

Janeway dropped her hands into her lap. She hadn’t been doing anything important on the computer. This mission didn’t really require their supervision; Chakotay had known that. That was the point.

“Thing is, I don’t feel sorry. I was angry, and I had good reason to be angry. So I hit you.”

“Are you angry now?”

B’Elanna’s dark eyes dropped to her tea, and back up. “No. What you did was wrong, and you hurt me and a lot of other people I care about. But it won’t help me to be angry at you, so I’m trying not to be.”

“Did Mr. Kim go get the Captain of his own accord?”

“No, I told him to.”

“Why?”

B’Elanna took a long drink, determined to finish before the pejuta started to go cold. “Because I didn’t want to kill you.”

“You don’t want us to stay aboard.”

“I don’t think you’re _ready_ to be a part of this ship. To leave Starfleet behind. Am I wrong about that?”

“Starfleet is part of who I am.”

“Yeah, I can tell. And as long as that’s true, you know, you represent the enemy. An enemy who deliberately took away our homes. Twice. When the Federation gave away the colonies to the Cardassians ‘for the greater good’. And when you stranded us here, ‘for the greater good’. Ironic, isn’t it? Wait— look, just tell me something. Why did you do it? I just want to hear you say it.”

“There were hundreds of millions of people on that planet. If the Kazon had taken control of the array, there’s no question that they would have used it to invade the Ocampa. Our lives are not worth more than their whole civilization.”

B’Elanna could only stare at the utter arrogance of it all. “You weigh lives like latinum all the time, don’t you. Like they’re your property, to do with what you want. Like you— or anyone— is remotely qualified to assign a value to sentient life."

“I’m not qualified,” Janeway said softly. “But I have to. We all assign values, whenever we make any decision.”

She wasn’t finished. “No wonder your only friend is a Vulcan, if you always choose the good of the many over the good of the few. Even when those few are your own goddamn crew. The people who trust you and depend on you. Because, I don’t know about Vulcans, but the rest of us living, feeling people have this notion of _obligation_ and _loyalty_ and it sure seems to me that we have a lot more of a duty to those who depend on us than we do to total strangers.”

There was a faint color rising in Janeway’s cheeks. She’d gotten under the cold woman’s skin. “I made the decision I made. Don’t thi— don’t think it doesn’t haunt me. But there’s no changing it now.”

“Whether or not you sleep well at night won’t be a big deal to me if I’m dead because of one of your choices. Don’t be surprised when people can’t trust you. I figure, if some aliens in distress happened by right now, and you could save them by beaming me out into space, you’d do it. And would you do the same to a friend, a lover? This is the vaunted Starfleet ethics. Go forth and do what’s right. Ride in like a white knight to save all those poor aliens. But the Federation doesn’t protect its own. It throws its own citizens to the wolves, if that will save the most lives. And that’s why it won’t last. You, this… this is everything the Maquis stand against. We’re a family. We take care of each other, and we leave others to take care of each other. We have a pretty good idea of what’s right for us, but we’re not about to say what’s right for the whole galaxy. So pardon me. Pardon me if I felt safer without you around— much less in charge.”

There were several long breaths of silence. “I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me,” she said quietly.

“You’re welcome to change that impression,” B’Elanna replied. “But it’s going to take actions, not words.”

“And I think you’ve also gotten the wrong impression of Starfleet.”

“You forget, I was there. I saw it.”

“For three semesters. I’ve seen your Academy record—”

“Great.”

“—and along with the disciplinary hearings, the suspension, there was a note from Admiral Chapman saying you were one of the most brilliant cadets he’d ever taught, and that he would sponsor you if you ever reapplied. Starfleet Academy is rough, especially for freshmen from the colonies. But they weren’t trying to push you away. Your professors were disappointed to see you go.”

B’Elanna blinked at that. “I fought with Professor Chapman nearly every day. His methods, his assumptions… he kept slapping me down like some upstart kid. He was part of the reason I _left_. What kind of institution treats their ‘best’ students like shit?”

“A military one. One that has to prepare them for much worse than a harsh teacher.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious that I’m not a good fit for the military. Militaries tend not to look too kindly on people who want to think for themselves. Or people who are different, generally. I could tell you a lot of things about Starfleet I bet you don’t know. About the impression it makes when you’re _not_ a famous Admiral’s daughter. When you’re not coming out of some preparatory school. When you’re an _alien_. Do you know how many people said, or implied, that I only got into the Academy because I was a minority species? Everyone _knows_ Starfleet is so inclusive, that it wants to increase diversity. Even though the campus is more than eighty percent Human, they’re _trying_ , right? Hell, they even have special programs for us, tutoring, culture lessons, help us fit in. I never felt more Klingon in my life. The constant questions, the embarrassed looks in Interstellar History. It was like I was supposed to represent all Klingons. It was my only identity to my classmates. I did track and field. I built things. I even dated. But I was always just the Klingon. You want to think there’s no racism in Starfleet? You’re fucking wrong. I learned a lot about what Humans think about Klingons. Guys assuming I was down for anything, or acting like I was some prize to conquer. Or just wanting to prove they were stronger.”

B’Elanna shook her head. “I studied all the time. They expect you to perform just like everyone else, just like the legacy brats. No, better. Because you have to prove it to yourself. Prove that you can cut it. That you weren’t some diversity quota admit. But I couldn’t cut it. Not with the grades, not… emotionally, either. And when I dropped out, I knew it wasn’t just about me. I knew I was just reinforcing all the racial stereotypes. Klingons are too volatile, can’t play nice with others. Can’t make it, in an elite program like Starfleet Academy.” She swallowed past the lump rising in her throat.

Janeway’s arm twitched, almost as if she was going to reach out.

B’Elanna stared out her viewport. “Here’s the clincher. How much of it was in my head, just me starting out fucked up? How much of it was people just trying to be nice, and me pushing them away? I don’t know. I’ll never know. You can’t escape it when it’s in your head.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry your experience at the Academy was so bad. I wish… I wish I was there, so I could give them a piece of my mind.”

She scrolled through her console, feeling the heat in her face. “I don’t know why I said all that.”

“You were making a point, an important point.”

“Yeah, I was. My experiences are part of why I disagree so much with Starfleet morality. I experienced first hand what a system, a philosophy, is like when it measures everyone’s value in the same way. When it doesn’t recognize the immeasurable difference between people. In a system like that, the majority will always be the default. And, because it only considers its own point of view, the majority will always be wrong.”

“I had an advisor, once, in Starfleet, who talked about how our institutional structures were harming our ultimate mission of peaceful scientific exploration. He would agree with everything you’re saying. Especially after the wars, there are more people than you’d think who see us as having forgotten that mission.”

B’Elanna glanced back to her. “Like I said, if Starfleet changes, if people change, I’ll change what I think of them.” There was a long pause. She was feeling the discomfort of asymmetrical information exchange. “So, why did _you_ join Starfleet?”

“Well, like you said, I’m an Admiral’s daughter. I guess I always wanted to be in Starfleet.”

“That’s kind of sad. Haven’t you ever made a choice of your own?”

“Yes.”

“That came out wrong.” She sighed. Why was she even trying? “So, what do you four-pips think about the treaty? It’s not like the brass ever asked your opinion.”

“I support it. It was the best thing we could do. Negotiations never end with either side getting exactly what they want. We had to give up the colonies— it was bad, but we had to do it. Because if the war had continued, a lot more people would have died, would have lost their homes, would have come to look at a Cardassian and see an enemy, no matter whether he wore a uniform. Would have gotten so used to fighting that it was the only thing they knew how to do.”

B’Elanna thought of all the hairy firefights she’d been in, the raids on supply depots, the hand-to-hand with ugly Cardies, knowing full well that capture meant brutal interrogation by a people who’d made an art out of torture. While some people with valuable science degrees sat cocooned on Federation starships. “What do you know about fighting?” she muttered.

“I fought for eight years. From my first posting to the cease-fire.”

She _was_ that much older, it was true. “I didn’t know that.” B’Elanna frowned. “I bet having an astrophysicist around was real useful in the trenches.”

Janeway didn’t reply.

Some things weren’t really lining up. Her first posting. Eight years. Her best friend. And now, Captain of the sleek little _Voyager_. “Wait, you’re not really an—”

The shuttlecraft shook, and both consoles threw red light onto their faces with a deluge of warnings. “BaQa’!” she cursed. “What now?”


	6. Parallax Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrown together on a mission, the conflict between Janeway and Torres highlights the deep differences between an establishment scientist and a rebel engineer.
> 
> Part 4: Meanwhile, on _Val Jean_... a ship is a workplace, a boarding house, a microcosm of society.

The problem with a small ship, Chakotay reflected, was that its corridors were not long enough for pacing. Not long enough to have a good think in between meetings. It was a short walk from the medbay to the galley. Still working over what to do about the medical hologram, he picked up what was probably one of their last apples, tossed it from hand to hand, not really intending to eat it. Neelix, half-concealed behind a cloud of steam, spotted him before he’d really finished his train of thought.

“Captain! Are you looking for something to eat? Why, I’ve almost finished a brand-new invention…” One glance at Chakotay’s deadpan face made him immediately switch gears. “I’m sure you’re here to talk about what just happened today. Before you say anything, let me swear to you, swear on the dead spirits of my ancestors, that it will never happen again. This is exactly the route I took on my trip out here less than six months ago. There most certainly was no black hole then. I’m no scientist, I have no idea what could possibly make a black hole appear so quickly. But I assure you, even if something odd has happened to the region ahead, I have contacts. More contacts than you might think, for a simple trader. And, might I say, I have a suggestion for our next port of call. A place to pick up supplies? But, I understand, this has been quite a disappointment for you. If you wish, Kes and I can pack our bags, and might only beg of you that you take us as far as Kelas— it’s the next friendly planet on your route. I have quite a few old friends there…”

“Neelix. I’m not here to tell you to leave. Jor tells me there’s nothing she can think of that could make a black hole appear in previously-empty space. But then again, weeks ago I would have said there was nothing that could pull a ship across the galaxy. I’m here because I need to know what’s ahead of us. In detail.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, Captain, you most certainly have come to the right place. Let me pour us some hot tea. Why don’t you have a seat?”

The whiskered alien joined him shortly with two steaming cups of bitter liquid.

“All right, what can you tell me?”

“Well, I suppose we should begin at the beginning. You’ve already made the acquaintance of the Kazon, or, I should say, of the Kazon-Ogla. You see, the Kazon are divided into a number—a large number—of independent sects, each lead by a Maj, a leader. It is the fact that the Kazon sects are embroiled in constant warfare, you see, that has prevented them from truly inheriting the legacy of the Trabe.”

“The Trabe?”

“I’ll get to them in a moment. Now, there are eighteen major sects of the Kazon, but only six that you really need to worry about. And mind you, I’m not counting the Ogla. They’re small fry compared to the Nistrim, the Mostral, and the other major players. The only reason you encountered the Ogla already is that they, having lost several key battles, retreated to claim less contested space. That is what brought them to hold this forsaken region.

“Not only is this area sparse on natural resources, but menacing rumors of this ‘Caretaker’, as you call him, reached civilized territories _years_ ago. It’s only the Ogla’s desperation that drove them out here. And I, rugged entrepreneur as I am, follow the winds of opportunity, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But let me tell you, the Kazon are the least of your worries. Until thirty years ago, they were just slaves! Now, they may have killed the masters, the once-great Trabe, but that doesn’t mean they know how to maintain a civilization. With Trabe military protection gone, I’m afraid more unsavory political powers have moved in around the edges of their vast territory. My own homeworld, Talax, a trade protectorate of the Trabe, was seized by the Haakonian Order fifteen years ago.” He glanced away. “War is always complicated, Captain, and I am glossing over many of the details. Let’s just say we should plot a course to avoid Haakonian space.”

“I understand.”

Neelix rallied his mood. “But the Talaxian diaspora was _vast_ , and my people are everywhere in the space ahead, always happy to help a cousin. What’s more, we’re soon going to enter the sphere of influence of Sikaris, the one good thing to happen since the fall of the Trabe. The Sikarians are very advanced. They were once isolationists, you know. But now they’ve extended the hand of friendship and protection to dozens of nearby systems threatened by the power vacuum. Kelas—the last port of call before this worthless wasteland—is one of these systems.”

“It sounds like we’re in luck.”

“We are. But let me warn you, the Kazon and the Haakonnians, brutal as they may be, are not the worst enemies ahead. The real reason Sirakis extended compassion to its neighbors was the imminent threat of the ever-expanding _Vidiians_.”

Chakotay had a sense of the alien’s storytelling by now, and knew his cue. “Who are they?”

“The Vidiians are monsters out of children’s tales. At first sight, their skin is mottled and ugly. But if you are ever so unfortunate to get up close to one, you would see that their skin is really composed of many layers stitched and glued together. In fact, their entire bodies are pieced from mismatched parts. They travel in small ships, searching, hunting, for new bodies to harvest. They are undiscriminating and merciless.

“So, you see, we must travel through a narrow corridor between the Haakonian Order and the Vidiian marauders, and this leads us straight to the core of Kazon space. Fortunately, this is a corridor in which I have many trade connections, and I can give you a favorable introduction to our benevolent protectors. If you choose to go on with your journey, of course, you will encounter the reason why the Kazon rarely venture beyond the old Trabe borders: a region between Sikarian and Trabe space which navigators unanimously consider _haunted_. The old routes went around, you see, through Talaxian space. But that is no longer an option for us. I am sure I can be invaluable to you in gathering information about this next obstacle when we come to it.” Neelix gave him a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” Chakotay took out a padd and drew a diagram, asking questions and receiving corrections until his rough map was accurate. Neelix listed off the names of the Kazon sects, and what he knew of their reputations.

Chell burst through the mess doors, took one look at the two of them conferring, and made his way over. “Don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, clearly meaning exactly that, “but I’ve really got to talk to the chef here. You see, Mr. … Neelix, I’ve just had the most unpleasant experience of my life. I really think you must read up on Bolian dietary requirements and our _uniquely sensitive_ digestive system. I’ve brought you a few references here, but don’t worry, I’ll walk you through them.”

Chakotay smiled grimly at the two. “Sounds fascinating. I’ll leave you to it; I was just on my way out.” Leaving behind his half-full cup of tea and thanks for the local expert, he made his way back to his quarters full of knowledgeable uneasiness, which in his book was better than uncertain uneasiness.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Down in engineering, Michael drifted over to Simon Hogan and peered at his console. “Hard at work! C’mon, Simon. Boss is away, time to play.”

Simon gave him a guilty grin. “I _am_ playing.”

“With gravitational modeling?”

“Check this out.” He switched to another screen and compiled the code there, referencing the latest version of his model. Ascii characters swirled about and resolved themselves into the name of his new program. “Singularity Falls.” The small player-ship took off across the screen, and was immediately captured by the gravitational well. A sensor sweep updated the game map, showing unphysical field values, and enemy ships launching projectiles. “It’s got five levels so far.”

His roommate clapped him on the back. “ _Genius._ Maybe I can break my Rogue Star addiction.”

“Hah. It’s just a silly simple game. Practice.”

“Hey, did you see anon47 started writing a second text adventure?”

“I saw, but I haven’t played it yet. I like playing them when they’re done. Is it good?”

Michael waggled his eyebrows. “It’s a _romance_. Anon47 is definitely one of the chicks. What do you think. Mariah, or Jor? Which one do you think would have it in her to write that hardcore Klingon scene in _Five Empires_? Jackson’s sure it’s Mariah, but I think the quiet ones are the kinkiest on the inside.”

Simon looked down studiously at his console. “I dunno. Maybe it’s B’Elanna.”

“Hah! If only. Say, speaking of the _ladies_ , I saw you checking out that Kes girl. How old you think she is?”

“I was not ‘checking her out’. Anyway, she and the cook are a thing.”

“Simon, Simon. You think an ugly alien can keep a pretty girl like that with a ship full of strapping men who look a lot more like her own kind?”

He just shrugged.

“Look, I told you, back when we—” Michael suddenly grew more solemn. “I told you, back when we left base, that I was gonna get you laid. And if you think a little unplanned detour is going to stop me, you don’t know what it means to have Michael Jonas as your friend.”

“Dude, lay off Kes. I’m sure Chakotay’ll line up some shore-leave soon.”

Michael just grinned. “Suit yourself. Are you saying I’ve got a free pass, then? Hey hey, maybe we can share.” Simon looked up quickly. But Michael laughed and clapped his back. “Just _kidding_. That would be so gay.” Jackson was coming over, drawn by the laughter. Michael leaned in conspiratorily. “ _Besides,_ ” he whispered. “I’ll be a bit busy with a different ‘assignment’, from on high.”

“Hey Jonas. C’n I talk to you for a minute?”

The two of them wandered off. Jackson glanced back when the door opened, but waved Kurt over towards Simon.

Kurt Bendera looked around the empty room before going over to get the status report. All systems go. Ready for warp. Shuttle telemetry coming in loud and clear. But instead of heading right back up to the bridge, he leaned restlessly on Simon’s console, his dark eyes watching the quiet conversation on the other side of the room. “D’you think they’re killing each other out there?” he murmured.

Simon felt sorry for the big, older man. “She can take care of herself,” he said. “You saw what happened last time.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting in a punch of my own,” he admitted. “Specially on one of the traitors. But skipper’s right. Enemy of my enemy, and all that.” He sighed. “D’you know when she’ll be back in?”

“Nope. They’ll come back when they’re done with the survey. Shouldn’t be more than another two hours, though.”

Jackson was sauntering back towards them. “Yo. She’s not here, knucklehead. Make sure you don’t touch anything on your way out. This is a workplace, not a watercooler.”

Kurt took the few steps that brought him right up in Jackson’s face, his massive arms folded over his chest. “I’m not _here_ for _water_ ,” he rumbled, before turning smartly and slamming the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Jackson and Jonas burst into laughter.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

“Ooh, look who we have here. Two geeks, working after shift. So diligent.” Mariah Henley was leaning in the doorway to the server room, her hips cocked, one arm stretched high on the frame. She wore a rough-cropped jacket and baggy cargo pants over a skintight undershirt, the effect of which was to emphasize her hourglass figure without showing a thing. A bright red headband accented her short auburn hair. “C’mon, geeks. Worktime’s over.” She stepped gingerly through the mess of cables and made her way over to Will Jarvin, hooking her arm through his. “I need my pool partner. Epic rematch, round eight. Plus, Chell’s got his baby set up. About time.” She glanced over at Harry, considering. “You too, Mr. Harold Seon-Li Kim. Pack it up.”

“Oh, I’ve really got too much…”

“Are you saying you’re more indispensable than Will here, Starfleet prettyboy?”

“No! That’s not what I—”

“ _Relax_. Come watch us thrash Team TabJor. Or else you’re gonna make Will feel bad that he’s taking off and you’re not. And then I’ll feel bad that he feels bad, and if I feel bad, the whole ship’s gonna feel bad. Besides, you’re all he talks about these days, rest of us are getting jealous. We’ve got to see for ourselves what all the fuss is about.”

Will shrugged at him with a sheepish grin. “Come along, Harry. It’s just the four of us, and Chell. Pool night. Swap in after the first game.”

“Um. I’m ok just watching.”

Mariah took him by the arm and dragged him along. “Maybe you’ll change your mind after experiencing Chell’s company.”

“Where are we going?”

“Rec room! You haven’t seen the rec room? It’s in the back, just over the core. You can be loud in there, ship won’t hear. We got weight racks, punching bag, treadmill, pool table, other games that take less wit and finesse than pool. It’s also a good place to go pee or shower if the mid-deck bathrooms are occupied. Careful, though, Chell uses that bathroom for his personal hygiene. Room’s daytime open use, evening reservation system; you sign up on bbs.”

“They don’t have bbs access yet. I’ve been logging our work.”

“Ohh. Well, I’m sure you’ll get it eventually. We use it for everything. Work, message boards, private messaging, games. Porn. Good anonymous login, too. Even Will hasn’t been able to hack it.”

“Used to be a smuggling ship,” Will added by way of explanation.

Mariah threw open the doors so hard they rattled in their sheaths. “Welcome, my young padawan of pleasures, to the rec room. Hey, looks like we’re the first ones here.” The room was smaller than Harry had imagined, but it did indeed contain all the things she had described, optimally packed. One side had mirrored walls with the exercise mat and equipment. The other two walls were lined with low couches anchored by a big metal cabinet in the corner. The center of the room was dominated, of course, by the pool table. Mariah headed straight for the back and what was unmistakably a home-made still. “What can I get you boys? We have moonshine, moonshine, and moonshine. Right-o. Three moonshines, comin’ straight up.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

“We need to go, they’ll be waiting.”

“Hold on, I think I’ve almost got this problem.” Jor tapped furiously for another minute, then the padd clattered on the desk. “Never mind. It’s hopeless. Another circular fucking proof.”

Tabor wrapped his arms around her narrow shoulders, resting his chin on her soft brown hair. “It’s not hopeless. You just need to sleep on it. You’ve been reading that GR textbook all day.”

She turned around in her chair, burying her face in his shoulder, her voice muffled. “What else am I supposed to do? I’ll just get in the way in Engineering. I can’t follow what they’re saying, it’s all too fast. I read her code, I just don’t get it.”

“Shh. You also haven’t spent a whole career being an astrophysicist.”

“I’m useless now.”

“Hey now. You think astrophysicists know the first thing about biofilters? About photochemistry? About planet geology? Well, ok, maybe planet geology. My point is, some people know a lot about a little. And some people know a little about a lot. What do you think a small ship needs?”

“ _Her,_ ” Jor mumbled miserably. “We’ve needed a scientist from the beginning. A real scientist.”

“You are a real scientist. Scott was a real scientist too.”

“Not a physicist.”

“Ok. Come on.” He pulled her up. “We’re going out. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I really, _really_ don’t want to go out tonight.”

He got a warm washcloth, wiped at her eyes, kissed her forehead. “Neither do I. But we’re always glad we did, aren’t we? Every single time.”

She gave a little smile and traced the ridges of his nose. “Except that time I accidentally punched you in Mike’s defense class.”

“Are you kidding? That was the day I knew I’d married the right woman. Wouldn’t want a wife who can’t deck me when she’s not even trying.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Mike Ayala stood out of the way as the computerized doctor, still wearing its Starfleet uniform, conducted the second of its medical checkups. Naturally, since he’d be here babysitting anyway, Mike had been the first. He folded his arms and leaned up against the wall next to the console where, with a push of a button, he could turn off the Fed program. Twenty years in the business had given him an instinct for trouble, though, and if his instincts extended to computer programs too, he didn’t expect trouble from this one. Doc was cool, professional, and just sarcastic enough to make Mike crack a smile. On the inside.

But once it had finished scanning and probing and questioning young Gerron, Mike leaned on that button and watched the man of light wink out of existence. “Hey kid,” he called. “I’ve got a couple of questions too.”

The Bajoran kid was sixteen years old, black hair, thick eyebrows, pug face with a nose that had certainly been broken at least once. His shoulders hunched. “Wutsit?”

“Where’s Dalby? We had a meeting this afternoon.”

The kid’s eyes didn’t leave the floor. “Sick.”

“So he’s in your cabin?”

The kid just shrugged.

“Do you know what he’s in trouble for?”

The kid hesitated. “Yuh.”

“Did he talk to you about why he attacked Paris?”

He hesitated again. “Yuh.”

“Did you tell Kathryn Janeway?”

At that, the kid looked up at him with some sort of defiance. “Mstur Dalby look out fo me, I look out fo him.”

“Interesting. I think you’ll agree that it’s looking out for him to tell him I said this: no more trouble. Strike two. Three strikes, you’re out.”

“Yussuh.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted to say.”

The kid looked like he was about to turn away, then changed his mind. “Mstur Dalby ent a bad man, Mstur Ayla.”

Mike sighed. “I know, Gerron. I know. Thanks for looking out for him.”

He keyed the computer to summon his former cabinmate to the medbay.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Bolian moonshine, predictably enough, was one of the worst things Harry Kim had ever swallowed. Two shots in an hour was not enough to push him over into the territory of being _tipsy_ , of course, but it was enough to count as a wee bit of liquid courage.

And so it was that instead of going back to his own cabin, he was tapping at the one next door.

“Enter,” came the Vulcan’s smooth baritone.

Harry slid the door open to find the man kneeling in the center of the small room, his fingers steepled.

“Oh! I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Tuvok’s head tilted further up, a slight line appearing between his brows. “It is no intrusion. I had just begun. What can I do for you, Mr. Kim?”

“Well, I…” Too late, Harry wished he’d planned this out a bit more. He closed the door behind him. “I guess I just wanted to… check in. To ask how you’re doing. To ask how… the Captain is doing. I know it’s not my place,” he added quickly, “But I feel like I haven’t said a word to you since coming aboard. I know you probably prefer your solitude—” he was babbling, already.

“Mr. Kim. Your concern and your efforts are well-placed. No offense is taken. Please note, however, that Kathryn Janeway has instructed us to refer to her by her given name.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“We are doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Apart from my probationary shifts, occasional meals, and rare additional duties, I have spent my time here, meditating. As my presence antagonizes certain members of this crew, I believe it is best to minimize contact and confrontation for the time being. I have kept apprised of your activities, and those of Mr. Paris. You have made admirable progress in integrating with this crew.”

Harry thought of the game he’d just come from, of the way Mariah had pulled him along, the way Will had praised his work to the others, the way Jor had asked about his family, and Tabor had taught him how to hold a cue. The way the guys had joined him, making it a battle of the sexes when Chell hadn’t shown up, just so that he wouldn’t feel like a fifth wheel. “It almost seems too easy.”

“You are the least threatening to them. You already have the approval of Ms. Torres, an important social force on this ship. They may also see their efforts as a process of ‘converting’ you from Starfleet.”

“Sir, I would never— I mean, I don’t—”

“Your four years of Starfleet training are precisely what will aid you in overcoming the adversity of this situation. Your technical skills are valuable to this ship. Your experience with and appreciation of diverse cultural backgrounds aids you in understanding the alternative perspectives. Your diligence and moral character will ensure that you critically examine those perspectives before taking them on yourself.”

“I don’t sympathize with the Maquis, sir.”

“I did not claim that you do. If those sympathies are, however, something you are concerned about developing, I believe the best course of action is to continue regular conversation with one who does not share them. I am sure Mr. Paris would suffice in that role.”

“Uh, sure.”

“How are you ‘doing’ otherwise? Do you have other concerns about your adjustment to our new circumstances that you wish to share?”

“Uh, I’m ok, thank you. Homesick, sure, we all are. But ok. Sometimes it doesn’t really sink in, you know?” The Vulcan waited patiently to see whether he would elaborate. “Uh, you know what, I think I’ll take your advice and see if Tom is home. Thank you, sir. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Good night, Mr. Kim. Thank you for your concern.”

As he closed the door, Harry watched the implacable Vulcan raise his steepled hands and close his eyes. His face smoothed, but the single line of worry remained between his brows.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Neelix ground to a stop in the little cabin he shared with Kes. “Pack your things, sweeting!” he huffed. “We need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

She looked up from the padd she was reading in her bunk, her brows puckered. “Why? What’s happened? Are you all right?” She swung down and he wrapped her in an embrace.

“I’m fine, fine, darling. I just don’t want to overstay our welcome!”

“This is about the black hole, isn’t it?”

He rooted around in his sheets for some clothing and stuffed it into a bag. “You’re so perceptive, so intelligent, sweet one. Yes, yes, the black hole. The black hole that’s not supposed to be there! The black hole, and my cooking, and the way I dress… these people don’t like anything about me.” A thought occurred to him. “Say, it’s valuable information for cartographers, though. The black hole. If it really is brand-new.”

“Something else has you bothered. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

Neelix sat heavily on his bunk. “Captain Chakotay came by to talk to me today,” he admitted. “He was not pleased at my blunder. He wanted information, information to make up for it. I think I gave up enough to satisfy him, without giving away too much. But he kept squeezing, _squeezing_ for details. And in the end, what do I have to offer him other than these regional details that he’ll soon be able to pick up from any trading post, these facts and a pocketful of promises about connections that ran dry years ago…” He shook his head. “No, it’s best not to overstay our welcome.”

Kes sat down next to him. “Neelix, these people don’t strike me as the kind who would use you up and then cast you aside. I’m sure Captain Chakotay just wanted to know what his ship will be flying into next.”

He reached over and tucked a lock of her flaxen hair behind her perfect little pointed ear. “Oh Kes. Sweet, sweet Kes. You’ve seen so little of people, and I’ve seen so much. I wish, sometimes, that I could still see them the way you do. But no matter where they come from, people are people. They want, and they trade or they take. So keep a bag packed, because when we have to go, we’ll have to go fast. I promised you,” he leaned his forehead against hers. “I promised you I would keep you safe and give you a good life, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Neelix.” She took his face in her hands, made him look at her. At her big blue eyes. Her perfect little nose. “Come with me to see my garden. I want to make it into one place on this ship where it’s impossible to be sad or afraid. One place where anyone can go to feel at peace. I’m very happy here, Neelix. I want others to be too.”

“Oh, sweeting. You are too good, too kind. This world does not deserve you.” He took her hand and thought of this little ship hurtling back towards all the decisions he had fled. He thought of all the more terrible things he would have to do before the two of them could truly be safe. “This world does not deserve you.” _And neither do I._


	7. Parallax Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrown together on a mission, the conflict between Torres and Janeway highlights the deep differences between an establishment scientist and a rebel engineer.
> 
> Part 5: Trust games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall receive. Some lovely person asked if I was coming back to this story---the short answer is obviously "yes!": I've posted the final part of Parallax and next Monday I'll post the very short Interlude that comes after Parallax. The longer answer is that I've reorganized the planned plot arc to condense more---there will be much less in the way of whole episodes rewritten, but I think it'll be better writing, and more manageable. So after the Interlude comes an episode drawing from a couple of early season 1 stories. When? I don't know, but there's empirical evidence that bugging me about it is effective, my dear unknown denizens of the internet.

“But where is it getting the _energy_ from?” Torres continued to mutter curses under her breath as she jerked the engines into standby and re-ran the sensor sweep.

Janeway stared at the readout, the impossible readout, that showed the thing at the center of the gravitational field was spinning up, was gaining mass. Both of them strapped in as gravitational eddies whipped across the little ship, straining its hull.

“Janeway to _Val Jean_.”

_“Seska here. What’s going on?”_

“We don’t know.”

_“Do we have an escape trajectory?”_

The two women on the shuttle exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Janeway replied, “But we have to go _now_ , before the field geometry changes too much. Match our impulse course.”

While Janeway fed the course to the nav system, Torres took over the comm. “Seska, get Chakotay up there. We’re going to need fancy flying. I’m opening a three-way with you guys and engineering. Jackson, you there?”

_“Here.”_

Chakotay’s voice came on, warm and steady. _“B’Elanna, I’m here too.”_

“Ok, _Val Jean_. I’m sending you telemetry. We’re going through first, you follow and do exactly what I say when I say it.”

Torres was rapidly setting the warp field parameters for the little shuttle, her screen split between her numbers and those her engineers were setting on the ship. Janeway steered them at impulse, outwards on a radial course angling in the direction of the singularity’s rotation. On their aft, _Val Jean_ was slowly catching up.

Over the open comm channel they could hear the dampened sounds of activity in engineering, and a dead professional silence from the bridge. Then some footsteps pounded up the metal companion ladder and Chakotay’s muffled voice came through: _“Paris, get over here, take the helm. Now’s not the time to be shy.”_

Another gravitational eddy threw them against their restraints. “Time to go, _Val Jean_.” Torres nodded to Janeway. “Initializing warp field.” And, quietly, she patted the dash of the run-down Yridian shuttle. “Warp five or bust, baby.” Beneath them and around them, the core hummed to life.

Janeway did her best to watch the structural integrity meter, the readouts from the _Val Jean_ , and juggle the manual course corrections. The bigger ship should be having a rougher time of it, yet they flew as smoothly as a stunt craft. “They’re matching us perfectly,” she breathed.

A lurch threw them starboard. “Flyboy’s a lot better than you are,” was Torres’ only comment.

Janeway shook her head. “We need a deeper warp field. Smooth out these eddies. This hull can’t take it.”

Torres could see that just as well as she could. At warp four they were a pocket in a maelstrom, their altitude at a standstill while the singularity dragged their orbit. Soon they would start to fall again.

Torres climbed out of her seat, staggering under the irregular inertial damping, and ripped an access panel off the back wall. “I have an idea.”

_Val Jean_ was right behind them, and at this rate could easily go to high warp and shoot away from the singularity, given the right course through the irregular subspace landscape. Janeway made sure Paris’ console had all the mapping information gathered so far, watched his computer trying to keep up with the realtime calculations. “If we can’t overdrive our core,” she ordered her helmsman over the comm, “that’s your heading.”

Jackson’s voice in engineering sounded harried. _“With due respect, Janeway, it’s not that simple. B’Elanna? Are you seeing this dilithium resonance?”_

“Ah!” Behind her, Torres cried out, a crack of electricity making her jerk away from the engine accessport. “Fucking fuck _fuck_ , the injectors are blown out.”

_“B’Elanna…”_ the engineer’s voice was rising in pitch. The high-bandwidth comm line crackled and died. Janeway leaned over and saw text messages flooding Torres’ console.

“Torres, get up here.” Janeway pulled up a schematic of the shuttle’s engine core. When the other woman didn’t immediately respond, she unstrapped herself and turned around. “Torres. Our priority here is to get the _Val Jean_ out of this gravity well. _You’re the only one who can do that._ Get up here. I’ll try to boost our field.” As they grimly swapped places, Janeway saw her own battle-calm reflected in the other woman’s face.

Janeway reached the fried access panel, the smoking injector assembly. She sprayed sealant liberally, mind racing. After a moment of tense silence punctuated only by sounds from Torres’ console, the engineer let out a loud breath. Janeway didn’t ask. Things on _Val Jean_ were resolved, or they weren’t. “Ok, ok. We can do this,” Torres called back. “Reroute the backup coil in series with the primary, and don’t take your eye off the crystal matrix. We’re going to supercharge this thing.”

Janeway instantly saw what she was planning, and it was more than a little insane. Even as she followed the order, she fought with the urge to question it. “Is this another case of flying by your instincts?” she said through gritted teeth, reaching in and using all her strength to pop a valve.

“Yes,” Torres threw back. “And I’m right. I know those coils. Just don’t let the matrix polarity flip.”

_I’ll trust you that it’ll work_ , Janeway thought. _Trust me that I can pull it off._ “Ready.”

The sound of the warp engine changed, and out the viewport the subspace starfield shifted hue. The rattle of the ship smoothed out. “Warp four-point-nine!” Torres cried in victory. But Janeway barely heard her. The numbers on her wall display were skyrocketing. The stress on the coils… “Take us out, _now_. We have about thirty seconds before something blows.”

“Going. _Val Jean_ ’s right behind us. She’s hit a bump—dammit!” Torres cut off in concentration. Janeway didn’t mind—she was elbows-deep in stress-energy flow through the entire engine assembly, looking for a way, _any_ way to buy them just a little bit more time.

There. That was it. That was what she would have to do.

A shrill warning klaxon went off on Torres’ console. “Janeway, what the hell? Don’t you dare fuck with that crystal. I’m coming back there—”

“No. You need to guide the _Val Jean_. Keep her warp reaction stable. Nobody knows that engine like you do, remember? I’ll keep us in one piece.”

“Dammit, Janeway, this isn’t about stupid trust games anymore.”

“You’re right,” she called back, even as she fed an equation to the computer, instructing it on exactly where to send an arc of current, exactly how to crack the dilithium crystal into electrically isolated halves… “It’s not about you and me anymore, it’s about that ship full of people—your friends.”

“I’ll give you that much, Janeway, you put your money where your—” The lights and consoles shorted out for a second before coming up on backup power. But they stayed at warp. The core didn’t breach. The warning klaxon grew shrill again. “Janeway, that’s not a clean break!” She unstrapped herself from the chair.

“Thirty, forty more seconds. Use them! You know,” Janeway added, breathless with the adrenaline of it all, “the world needs most people to be like you, it needs love and trust. But it also needs a few people to call the hard shots.” A forcefield crackled into existence between the fore and aft of the shuttle.

The explosion blew out more systems than Torres cared to count. She glanced back, and saw only smoke and sparks and sprays of coolant. But they stayed at warp. And the core didn’t breach. The shuttle sailed into clear space, the pull of the singularity dying away, _Val Jean_ safely on her heels and reporting all clear. Torres keyed the drop into normal space, froze the antimatter reaction rate and dumped in the control rods. Ignored the stream of red- and yellow-tagged warnings that the dilithium chamber was fucked up beyond repair. This wasn’t a good time for anger.

She reinitialized environmental control (but the air recyclers were already doing their job on the smoke), shut down all the coolant valves, and dropped the forcefield. She checked in on Janeway, made sure the ex-captain had a pulse and was breathing. “Guilt is a damned selfish emotion, you know,” she muttered to the unconscious woman covered in plasma burns. Then she brought the shuttle in to dock.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Chakotay forced his fingers to unclench from the raised edge of the doorway to the bridge where he’d been standing since he’d ceded the conn to Paris. Since he’d surrendered control. _Delegation is a key part of command,_ he reminded himself. _Delegation to the greatest expertise._ The younger man was now leaning back in his chair, one hand coming up to wipe sweat off his forehead and brush through his hair. Seska was still running checks on the systems, her shoulders tight. She hadn’t yet turned around to run that check on him, the way they always looked to each other after surviving yet another impossible situation. Kurt was helping B’Elanna guide the shuttle in. This was a good crew. They worked well together. Give them a decent pilot, and they didn’t even need—

 _Stop that,_ he thought. _You’ve practiced being angry at Paris for so long, you’ve forgotten what got him caught by Starfleet in the first place…_

“Good work, everyone,” was what he said aloud. “Good flying. I’m going to debrief B’Elanna.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

She woke flat on her back with the familiar fuzzy sensation of a sedative fading away. Leaning over her was a balding man in medical blue. The words were out of her mouth, her heartbeat spiking, before she was half conscious. “What happened? The Kazon—the array!”

_She clung to the railing to the lower part of the bridge where she and Tuvok had beamed up. A section of ceiling had fallen and crushed her chair—(and Aaron Cavit’s). Tom Paris swiveled at his post—(the post where Lt. Stadi died)—throwing his hands up. Helm control was gone. A behemoth of a warship loomed on the screen. Her bridge was falling apart around her—_

“I’m not on _Voyager_ anymore, am I?” She sat up, looked around, took inventory.

_She picked the photograph of Mark out of pieces of shattered glass. “You’d have to give up the uniform,” the Maquis captain said, offering sanctuary to her crew. The angry half-Klingon engineer snarled in her face, pinning her against the wall. The dilithium crystal cracked._

“Ah.” She considered the man—the Starfleet uniform and the cramped but tidy sickbay of the Maquis ship _Val Jean_. “I suppose they recovered your program in the debris.”

“Yes.” The doctor’s face was programmed with deep care-lines, a wide expressive mouth. Just the kind of face to set a patient at ease. Janeway swung herself off the biobed, noting that her body didn’t feel particularly worse for wear. Nothing a night’s sleep couldn’t fix. Or a bath and a cup of coffee. What she would give…

“Captain, I’ve been hoping to talk with you about—”

“Janeway,” she corrected harshly. “I’m not a captain here.”

“With due respect, your commissioned rank—”

“We’re a long way from Starfleet. They don’t use rank on this ship. And besides—” she shook her head, not finishing what she’d started. “Integrating is our best chance of survival.”

His voice lowered. “Are the Maquis hostile, then?”

_The way Tom winced when she touched his lowest rib. The way Torres leaned back and gripped her cup of pejuta._

“Hostile? Some of them.”

“I’ve been conducting medical examinations of the crew. A great many have evidence of physical confrontations, old and new, poorly healed. Including you.”

_Rules are different here._

_I hear you speak a different language._

How could she explain life on this ship to a Starfleet medical program? This was not something that Starfleet could understand—or accept. What had happened to her, that she did? Had she lost her own programming, her own ideals, so quickly? _Diplomacy, not violence._ But it wasn’t just the Maquis’ rules that were different here. They were lost, alone, on a small ship with dwindling resources. What she’d seen of the Delta Quadrant so far suggested that it was a sparse, brutal place. She still had three people who were her responsibility. _I’ll get you back to them,_ she’d promised Tuvok. Had she tried to renege on that promise today? There was more to that responsibility than simply keeping them alive. But why should they still look to her when she’d already—

The hologram made an impression of clearing its throat. “Ahem. And furthermore, Ms. Janeway, regarding your own physical and psychological health…”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

Sure enough, the rumors that Chell’s still was back up proved true. Chakotay used a spoon to dissolve one of those vitamin capsules into his pour of moonshine—the astringent taste at least did something to cover the medical volatility of the stuff. Next to him, B’Elanna threw back her cup.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he responded to the sentiment, grimacing as he took his own swig.

“I don’t know, maybe this stuff is better than pejuta.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she raised a hand. “Just kidding, kidding. The pejuta was good. I think. Maybe the crisis was even better. You know what? She shut up and did what she was told, when it came down to it. And, I guess, even more surprisingly, so did I. She was right that the _Val Jean_ was our top priority. I was right about the dilithium resonance problem, and about overcharging the warp coils, and about _Val Jean_ ’s mass index field adjustments. So we were both right.” She pulled a face and poured herself a refill. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? Plus, she came up with a kind of creative engineering solution.” Her face darkened. “That completely destroyed the shuttle’s dilithium crystal. You realize that, right? That now we don’t have a warp-capable shuttle anymore?”

“I checked in with her in Sickbay. Do you know what she said about that?”

B’Elanna shrugged. “No.”

“She said to me, dilithium is rare, but we’ll find more. B’Elanna Torres is irreplaceable.”

She shrugged again, glanced away. “She counts lives. At least she’s no hypocrite. She was willing to blow herself up to give you all a better chance to get away.”

Chakotay just frowned. “Do you think she’s… stable enough to be exec?”

“Hah! As if. But think about it this way. Anybody who isn’t fucked up after crashing her ship and killing her whole crew is an unfeeling monster. All I’m saying is that maybe Kathryn Janeway isn’t an unfeeling monster. I’m all for that quality in an exec.” She toasted the air between them and drank to that.

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

After the last of the late-diners had left, after the last of the card-game players had left, after even Neelix had wiped down his counters and flipped off the lights, Chakotay’s restless pacing still brought him back to the mess hall and to the best place to view the stars. He was still hoping to run into her, to debrief her in an informal setting instead of in the medbay or in the little office tomorrow.

It was around midnight, and long past the time when he should be asleep. But one more round took him past the mess, and this time he saw a figure outlined at the window, wearing a long loose shirt over her pocketpants.

She turned at the sound of the sliding door, straightened into a self-assured composure. The motion was startlingly familiar. It made him think of all the times he’d come across Seska, lost in thought, staring out from this viewport. Seska had that same mask of invulnerability.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” He joined Kathryn Janeway at the window, sharing the space.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

“I’m about to go try. I keep thinking about what lies ahead. I got a rundown from Neelix.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Her profile was sharp against the stars. Her chin tilted slightly upwards, her features fine and straight, her eyes washed of color in the dark.

“Your pejuta was good,” she said finally. “Thanks.”

“I hope it helped.”

She sighed. “I can’t speak for Ms. Torres, but it certainly gave me a lot to think about.”

“Well, if you ever want to think aloud, my door’s open. I want to make this work, Kathryn.”

She looked at him then, thoughtfully. He searched, for signs of he knew not what. She was unreadable. Finally she spoke. “If things had happened differently, and we were on _Voyager_ instead of your ship, would you have taken up the uniform again? Let go of your past? Served under me?”

He considered it for a moment. Considered the aura of command that had drawn him to her from the moment they’d met. Considered how even now, though she was wrapped in grief, her strength was as captivating as any singularity. And he realized that, if their roles had been reversed, he would have followed her anywhere.

“In some ways,” he said carefully, “I think that would have been easier. But you’re wrong about one thing. We never let go of our pasts. We always remember.” It was permission, as much permission as he could give, for her to never stop being that captain.

“Thank you, Chakotay.” Her hand reached for his arm before she remembered to pull back. An echo of a familiar touch between people who might be friends. Instead, she just added, “Well, we’d better get some sleep.”

He watched her leave the mess and had the oddest sensation, like staring down a long aerial dive before letting yourself tumble gently out of the craft. Not yet reaching that point of no return, but catching sight of it up ahead. The eerie sensation that he _should_ be feeling something other than this simple sense of calm. The sensation that, for better or for worse, he would soon feel a great deal more than that.

Movement caught his eye, peeling away from the shadows of the galley. "Hello lover," Seska purred. "We need to talk."


	8. Parallax Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: a short piece of music that is played between the parts of a longer one.
> 
> Read to the accompaniment of Tchaichovsky, Symphony No. 4, second movement, e.g. from here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83F2cK4gG0M  
> I suggest starting at one minute into the piece.

Chakotay paused in his stroll of the decks. Paused outside of Kathryn Janeway’s cabin. With _Voyager’s_ Federation database now fully integrated into the ship’s systems, he could faintly hear that she had music playing in her room, something light and haunting. Something classical. Something well-known, but he couldn’t identify it. She seemed like the kind of person who had taste. Maybe he should brush up on his classical music. Just so he would have _something_ in common with his new exec.

He made his way to the mess and stopped at the wall panel just inside the door to check which file she was accessing. Tchaikovsky, Symphony No. 4. She was at the beginning of the second movement.

“Ah, Captain!” Neelix turned the tight corner of the galley to see the man standing there, lost in thought. “You have excellent timing! I was about to serve supper. I really must say I’ve outdone myself this time. Although some of this dehydrated foodstuff continues to baffle me… Ah, it’s just the stress, you see. This entire mysterious affair with the black hole, cooking always helps me unwind. And,” he quirked a smile, “eating seems to help others unwind. Let me get you a plate.”

In a moment of inspiration, Chakotay keyed the computer to pipe the music through the shipwide intercom. A swell of violins was rising to to join the lower strings. People started trickling into the mess. “Brilliant!” Neelix exclaimed. “What an excellent way to announce supper.” Chakotay settled down with his plate, and he had to admit the food was the best it had been all week. Still, not one of the three people he might have been waiting for made an appearance, and he wasn’t sure whether he was grateful.

At a nearby table, Harry Kim had taken up his spoon and was gesturing in a sketch of a conductor’s baton. “We played this at junior concert,” he was telling Will and Mariah. “Mostly counting off rest, for the woodwinds, but then there’s this tricky part, coming up…” he was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed in appreciation. “Libby, she was our flautist, she hated _staccato piano_ …”

“Will’s musical too,” Mariah offered. “We can have a ship’s band!”

“Really, what do you play?”

Will was chewing his way through a tough mouthful. Mariah smirked and pounced on the opportunity. “You’ll _never_ guess. Go on, though, guess.”

“Uh, Vulcan lute?”

Chakotay, knowing the answer, hid his own snort with a quick bite.

“No, he’s a _drummer_!” She made no effort to contain herself. “Come on, Harry, doesn’t he just _look_ like a drummer to you?”

The clean-cut young electrical engineer just shrugged, failing to suppress the tug at the corners of his mouth. “I was once in a screaming death metal group.”

The ‘fleet kid just looked back and forth between them, wide-eyed incredulity warring with the bit of cynicism he’d picked up in the last few weeks. “Ok, you’ve got me. I have _no idea_ whether you’re pulling my leg.”

“And you’ll never know,” Mariah tossed her hair, “until we get down to some shore leave.” She caught Chakotay watching the exchange and winked. “Isn’t that right, boss? Requisition list now includes whatever weirdass alien instruments we can find, priority mission critical.”

In the galley, Kes finished a batch of pot-sterilization and set down the spanner. “Look at them,” she tugged on Neelix’s sleeve. “They’re happy, laughing. They like your food. You’ve brought them together in the act of sustaining life.”

The Talaxian trader glanced over the cramped mess room, where half the crew were mingling, pushing small tables together and stacking empty bowls. He just shook his head at it all, but for a moment he could almost see them through her eyes. He turned back to her, the only one of them who mattered, and swept her up into a dance. She laughed and tried to hold onto him while he spun with the crescendo.

“Kes,” he said into her ear. “Thank you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

=/\=          =/\=          =/\=

In the medical bay, the Emergency Medical Hologram of the former USS _Voyager_ placed the last hypocapsule in its case, closed the snaps, stored the case in the appropriate cabinet atop its thirteen identical companions, closed and latched the cabinet door, and turned to survey the sickbay.

Spotless. Every piece of debris and clutter had been recycled into energy or inventoried and stored away. Every surface had been sterilized. Every item of use had been committed to memory. The Emergency Medical Hologram stood in the center of the room feeling neither pride nor aesthetic pleasure, neither disgust at its lot nor annoyance at the labor so far beneath its capabilities. As music played over the shipwide intercom, the Emergency Medical Hologram realized that it had no task remaining, no purpose for remaining active. It also realized that it lacked the ability to turn off its program, and that it had not been granted access to the comm or any ship’s computer systems. The program passed the next one-point-nine seconds estimating the low probability that a member of the crew would visit the medical bay before Tom Paris’ shift in eighteen hours. It passed the following three-point-two minutes running a self-diagnostic. It passed the following four-point-seven minutes optimizing its data storage for the new spatial information about the room’s contents. It spent the following twelve seconds causing its imaging processor to nod its head in time to the auditory stimulation from the intercom. And then, it engaged its vocal processors in a test of how accurately it could anticipate and reproduce the sounds.


End file.
